From Campfire to Cosmos: The Evolutionary Imperative of Storytelling

How Stories Have Shaped Human Consciousness and Society

Jun 29, 2025

"Tell me the facts and I'll learn. Tell me the truth and I'll believe. But tell me a story and it will live in my heart forever."

—Traditional Native American Proverb

The Art of Storytelling

"After nourishment, shelter, and companionship, stories are the thing we need most in the world."
— Philip Pullman

Stories have been on the mind as of late. I have always enjoyed making stories, even into adulthood. But recently, whilst working on my novel—A look at chapter one, coming soon by the way—I kept finding myself slipping into this rut of feeling the need to understand the very concept of a story, to feel qualified I guess, to indulge in making one. Absurd as this instinct is, I decided why not.

It is something I have thought of in passing before, and have encountered in my very varied readings. From evolutionary biology/psychology, to literature, to politics, to philosophy, anthropology, and sociology. In all of these fields, the thing which is, story, seems an unsung hero for the most part. We know that stories are entangled in the social mechanics of each, but how much do we truly attribute to stories as a fundamental component of our everyday lives? After some deep thought, I would argue not enough.

Before reading on, I want you to stop, look away from the screen, and try to answer this question. Form a coherent sentence, or string of sentences that you feel represents what a story truly is. Really think about this.

Now, try your best to hold on to that answer, and read on.

Just something we tell our kids

"Stories are not an escape from reality, but a passport to it."
— Eva Ibbotson

So, what is a story? Is it merely a sequence with a beginning, a middle, and an end? By that definition, one might humorously suggest a snake could be considered a story, given its biting start, its scaly middle, and its wiggly end. Yet, this simple analogy, while amusing, clearly misses the mark. While a snake undoubtedly has its own biological narrative, we seem to be grappling with a deeper question: What does it truly mean for something to possess a story in the way we understand it?

When trying to answer such profound questions, it's often tempting to dismiss them with a quick, glib conclusion. Perhaps something like, "Oh, it's just those things you tell children," or "it's what I read on the plane to make the time go by." But what do such statements really tell us? They're like describing a lightbulb solely as "something you screw in." It's not wrong, but it’s merely a tiny facet of a much grander picture. Even if we then add, "When provided electricity, it lights up, allowing you to illuminate a dark room," it still feels remarkably incomplete. How much, then, is truly missing?

Well, quite a lot, indeed.

On the nature of that thing we screw in to make light

"The universe is made of stories, not of atoms."
— Muriel Rukeyser

To truly understand what might be "missing" from a simple definition, let's gaze into the heart of something so ubiquitous, so seemingly simple, yet born from a symphony of human ingenuity and physical laws: the humble lightbulb.

The incandescent light bulb, a marvel that reshaped human activity by conquering the night, is far more than a simple screw-in device. Its story is a testament to centuries of scientific discovery and engineering refinement, culminating in a deceptively simple object. At its core, the lightbulb operates on the principle of incandescence, which simply means "the emission of light by a body as a result of being heated." The star of this show is the filament, typically a thin, coiled wire made of tungsten. Tungsten is chosen for its extraordinarily high melting point, allowing it to reach temperatures necessary for visible light emission without melting.

When an electric current (a flow of electrons) is applied to the filament, these electrons encounter resistance within the tungsten wire. This resistance causes the electrons to collide with the atoms of the filament. These collisions transfer kinetic energy to the tungsten atoms, causing them to vibrate more intensely. This increased atomic vibration manifests as heat. As the filament's temperature soars, it begins to emit electromagnetic radiation across a spectrum of wavelengths. While a significant portion of this radiation is in the infrared (heat) spectrum, a crucial part falls within the visible light spectrum, allowing us to see its glow.

To prevent the superheated tungsten filament from rapidly oxidizing and burning out in the presence of oxygen, it's encased within a sealed glass bulb (or envelope). Early bulbs created a near-vacuum inside to prevent this, but later iterations introduced an inert gas, such as argon or a nitrogen-argon mixture. These inert gases don't react with the hot filament, and their presence helps to slow the rate of tungsten evaporation from the filament's surface, significantly extending the bulb's lifespan. The evaporated tungsten atoms, instead of depositing on the cooler inner surface of the glass (causing blackening), are diffused back onto the filament by convection currents within the gas—a process known as the halogen cycle in more advanced, though similar, halogen lamps.

The filament itself is held in place by support wires, which connect to lead-in wires that pass through the glass seal at the base of the bulb. These lead-in wires are typically made of nickel-iron alloys, chosen for their thermal expansion coefficient (how much they expand or shrink with heat), which closely matches that of the glass, preventing cracking as the bulb heats and cools. These wires then connect to the metal screw base (or cap), allowing the bulb to be securely fitted into a lamp holder (socket), which provides the electrical connection to the main power supply. The screw base, invented by Thomas Edison, ensures reliable electrical contact and mechanical stability.

The journey of the electron—from the power station, through the intricate grid, into your home, through the socket, up the lead-in wires, past the support wires, and finally into that infinitesimally thin, glowing coil of tungsten, where it then excites atoms to shed photons—is a colossal story. It's a story of electrical engineering, of materials science, of thermodynamics, and of quantum mechanics at the subatomic level, where electrons jump between energy states and emit packets of light. Each flicker of a lightbulb is a whispered epic of scientific endeavor, an intricate ballet of fundamental forces, allowing us to read, work, and simply exist in the once-unconquerable night. And if such a seemingly simple object holds such a deep and interwoven narrative, imagine the tapestry woven by our own existence.

The Inescapable Narrative

"We are, as a species, addicted to story. Even when the body goes to sleep, the mind stays up all night, telling itself stories."
— Jonathan Gottschall

In deeply exploring the lightbulb, we have inadvertently proven another point: the profound utility of a story. A lightbulb, as just demonstrated, is far more than something you screw in. And it’s arguable that, deep down, we instinctively know this to be true for stories as well, even if we’ve never consciously articulated it. The detailed explanation of the lightbulb is a case in point. While flowery language and a certain writing style were used, the core truth remains: a narrative structure was employed to paint a vivid picture, to convey a deeper understanding.

But where did this narrative come from? The stories we tell are derived from a grand collection of stories we’ve been telling ourselves from the day we were born, and also from those gained from that and others around us.

Just picture it: A wee baby Matthew, rocking a kilt, no doubt, pitter pattering around the highlands of Scotland just observing things he had never before seen: some cool, some scary, some fun, and some just simply fascinating. So, we observe things... but what does that mean? From this perspective, everything naturally fits into its own narrative, without us even having to try. Every memory is not just a moment, but a context, the next piece in a sequence of events. Much like how you twist the lightbulb in, and then the bulb lights up. If baby Matthew tried to pick up a big stick and get a splinter, he would remember this story: The splinter followed the picking up of the stick----and perhaps think twice before doing it again in the future. The cause and effect, the before and after—it's all part of the natural story our minds construct. We make assumptions and conclusions based on these stories. One might even say that stories are the bridges between our lived experience and our worldviews, not just forming them, but constantly informing them too.

Much like the specific materials used in the lightbulb to prevent melting or the creation of excess gas, we too, it would seem, have a carefully selected mix of materials that make us perfect for wielding such stories. This, of course, brings us to evolution—a story as long as us, and far older still. We never had the need to tear our prey apart with our hands to kill them, so we don't have claws. We don't choose our sexual partners based on ritual combat performances, so we don't have horns or antlers. Although our ancestors once were, we're not naturally accustomed to the ocean, so we don't have fins or flippers.

Instead, we roamed the plains, mountains, forests, and jungles in groups, foraging what we could find, and hunting what we sometimes couldn't. The strongest groups, those capable of performing consistent hunts, would be most likely to survive and then pass on their genetics. So if the strongest in the group were tasked with making sure there was enough meat to go around, what did the rest do? Generally speaking, there were two kinds of humans: those who explored and traveled afar, and those who hunkered down and stayed around the fire. Both served a vast array of purposes; humans with different proclivities could benefit from the skills and inclinations of others.

But what of those who sat around the fire on long, cold nights with stars overhead and children to protect and teach? What do you think they did most? They socialized. While the other animals were busy using their natural gifts—claws, horns, wings, fins, shells—we were busy using ours: laughing, arguing, crying, flirting, scaring, comforting---Telling stories.

The point here is that we are socially evolved animals, with deep-seated tools within us to facilitate our ability to leverage this inherent talent. It's so natural and crucial to us, it’s arguable that the reason it feels so abstract and unclear when attempting to unpack it can be compared to the weird, wobbly, and poorly timed half-gasps we take when focusing on how we are breathing, or the clunky steps when focusing on walking.

The evolutionary Functions of Stories

"Perhaps imagination is only a storyteller who tells us about what has been."
— Carlos Ruiz Zafón

On a purely evolutionary level, stories serve several critical purposes. The first of these is the learning and transmission of knowledge. Imagine early humans. How did they teach the next generation which berries were safe, where the best hunting grounds were, or how to avoid predators? Not through textbooks, but through narratives. Tales like "Remember the swift deer near the whispering falls" or "Beware the shadows in the crooked forest where the great cat roams" made information memorable and transferable across generations, bypassing the need for direct, often dangerous, experience. This is why fables and parables are so effective, and why our cultures are riddled with them.

Social cohesion and group identity is another key function of the story. For a species that relies on cooperation, stories are the glue. Shared myths, legends, and historical accounts (even if embellished) create a collective identity. They define "us" against "them," explain origins, establish norms, and reinforce values. Think of tribal lore, founding myths of nations, or even the common stories shared within a family – they all strengthen bonds and provide a shared framework for understanding the world.

But what if the benefit of being part of a cohesive collective isn't enough for a particular incident? This is where rehearsal and problem-solving can help. Stories allow us to simulate scenarios without real-world risk. We can "play out" potential dangers, ethical dilemmas, or social conflicts in our minds, learning from the "characters'" mistakes or successes. This cognitive rehearsal enhances our adaptive capacity, preparing us for future challenges.

Then there is emotional regulation and catharsis, something we will likely all be familiar with, to the extent of which it relates to stories. Stories provide a safe space to process complex emotions like fear, grief, joy, and anger. Through empathy with characters, we can experience a range of feelings, providing an emotional release or understanding without direct personal consequence. This is a form of psychological processing that aids mental well-being.

These innate functions are incredibly present today, albeit often in more sophisticated or subtle forms.

Self-Narratives, sometimes even akin to "lying to yourself," are constantly constructed as we build personal narratives about who we are, where we've come from, and where we're going. These stories, whether entirely accurate or slightly self-serving, help us maintain a sense of identity, purpose, and self-esteem. They can motivate us ("I'm a survivor"), rationalize our past choices ("It was for the best"), or shape our future aspirations ("I'm meant for great things"). Sometimes, these self-told stories involve selective memory or downplaying failures, which can be seen as a form of psychological protection or motivation. Moreover, our internal monologues often take a narrative form, particularly in daydreaming and planning. When planning a day or strategizing for a meeting, we’re essentially telling ourselves a story of anticipated events and responses.

Within our community functions, stories continue to bind us. From popular music and blockbuster films to national histories and cultural traditions, songs, legends, and cultural narratives celebrate heroes, commemorate events, and transmit the values of a society. The tales of Scottish heroes like Robert the Bruce or William Wallace aren't just history; they're powerful narratives that shape a sense of national identity. Beyond this, branding and marketing are also heavily reliant on stories; companies don't just sell products, they sell narratives. Think of the story behind a luxury brand, a sustainable product, or a tech giant "innovating for the future." These stories create emotional connections and loyalty far beyond the product's actual utility.

However, the very power that makes stories so effective for learning and connection also makes them potent tools for harm. Stories can be, and often are, wielded as weapons. Manipulation is achieved by crafting a specific narrative, allowing individuals or groups to subtly (or overtly) influence beliefs and actions. A charismatic leader might tell a story of a glorious past and a threatened future to rally support, even if the narrative is distorted. This taps into our innate tendency to seek meaning and connection through narrative. Similarly, lying and deception are simply false stories presented as truth. Whether it's a personal fabrication to avoid blame or a calculated corporate cover-up, lying leverages the trust we place in narratives. We are wired to make sense of the world through sequential events and cause-and-effect, making us susceptible to compelling, even if untrue, stories.

Arguably the most dangerous form of story as a weapon is propaganda. Governments, political parties, or extremist groups intentionally construct and disseminate narratives—often oversimplified, emotionally charged, and repeated endlessly—to control public opinion, demonize opponents, or justify actions. The strength of propaganda lies in its ability to tap into our pre-existing worldviews and biases, reinforcing them with carefully constructed tales. These weaponized stories twist our perceptions whilst living our every day lives, distorting reality rather than illuminating it.

The fact that stories can be both our greatest tool for understanding and our most insidious instrument of deception underscores their profound power and their undeniable centrality to the human experience. This profound power is perhaps rendered even more perilous by narrative's abstract nature, making it elusive to fully grasp. To truly comprehend such a fundamental yet complex phenomenon, it often helps to first delineate its boundaries and ask: What isn’t a story?

What isn't a story?

"The true alchemists do not change lead into gold; they change the world into words."
— William H. Gass

A story, it would seem, is not merely a sequence of events. A sequence of events exists independently of us – a rock falls, a star explodes, a wave crashes. These are phenomena. A story then, could be seen as a meaning-making framework applied to a sequence of events, infused with human perception, interpretation, and often, emotion. It requires a subject (a character or object), a predicate (an action or state of being), and a context (a setting, a before-and-after). Crucially, it involves the attribution of significance. The snake's "scaly middle" only becomes part of a story when a human mind observes, interprets, and assigns meaning to its purpose, by understanding there is too a bity start, and the wriggly end, understanding the middle's journey and its place in the ecosystem. So, what didn't quite add up in the earlier snake analogy wasn't the fact that the snake is indeed something with a start to it, a middle, and an end, yet wasn't a story. The problem it seems is that we had no frame or context in this case as the interpreter.

This takes us directly to the heart of what makes stories an extension of us. Stories are so deeply interwoven with our humanity that it's difficult to separate the two. It's like asking what a song is without a bird to sing it, or a dam without a beaver to build it. These aren’t merely things these creatures do; they are fundamental extensions of who they are. So too, are stories for us. They aren’t just something we have; they are something we are.

But if stories are human interpretations, are they "just made up"? A construction, yes, but a vital one. They are constructs of our minds, shaped by our unique cognitive architecture. Unlike the objective, brute facts of the universe (the lightbulb's tungsten filament melts at X temperature regardless of who observes it), stories are inherently subjective. One person's story of growing up in Edinburgh will differ wildly from someone else's, even if they grew up on the same street.

However, labelling them "just made up" risks diminishing their profound utility and reality. While constructed, they are not arbitrary or frivolous. They are essential tools honed by evolution because they confer a massive adaptive advantage.

A pragmatic view on stories

"Stories are not just for entertainment. They are a means of organizing and making sense of the world around us."
— Kurt Vonnegut

To see stories pragmatically, think of a building blueprint. It's "made up," a drawing, not the actual building. But without it, constructing a stable, functional building would be chaotic, if not impossible. Stories are our mental blueprints for navigating reality. They allow us to predict, plan, empathize, and learn from experiences, both our own and others'. They are also the currency of human connection. We share stories to bond, to persuade, to teach, to entertain. Without this shared currency, our complex societies couldn't function. Imagine trying to explain justice or love or democracy without recourse to narrative. It would be like trying to eat water with a fork. Even here, you can see how this paints a picture of struggle and toil using the analogy of a fork trying to scoop water. This little story works so well at conveying an efficient meaning, as it draws on shared understanding that scooping water with a fork is hard. As a result, this symbolism can inform on another, more complex idea.

These symbolisms represent what seem to be the fundamental needs that drove early humans to gather around fires and share tales – the need to transmit knowledge, build cohesion, rehearse scenarios, and process emotions – and this hasn't vanished. Not just our stories, but our campfires have evolved.

The tales and camp fires of the 21st century

"The most powerful person in the world is the storyteller. The storyteller sets the vision, values, and agenda of an entire generation that is to come."
— Steve Jobs

Imagine cave paintings telling of a successful hunt. That's a story. Now imagine a news report about a new scientific discovery. The same core purpose remains: transmitting knowledge, celebrating achievement. The form has changed, but the function endures. Our oldest stories, the archetypal narratives of heroes and villains, journeys and returns, love and loss, still guide us today because they address universal human experiences and dilemmas. The language and settings change, but the core narrative remains remarkably consistent. For instance, The Hero's Journey, seen in ancient myths like Odysseus's travels and modern blockbusters, reveals a pattern of a protagonist facing challenges, overcoming them, and returning transformed. It’s a story of personal growth and resilience that encourages us in our own lives. Similarly, The Struggle Against Adversity, whether a tale of a small tribe fighting a harsh winter or a contemporary novel about overcoming systemic injustice, speaks to our innate drive to survive and thrive. Finally, The Search for Meaning, which ancient creation myths sought to explain regarding the origins of the world and humanity's place within it, continues today in philosophical essays, religious texts, scientific documentaries, and personal memoirs, albeit through different lenses.

These are not "new" stories; they are the same fundamental human narratives, re-clothed in contemporary words, symbols, and mediums. The stories we tell around the digital "campfire" of social media, in the policy papers influencing our nations, or in the academic journals dissecting the universe, are all echoes of those ancient tales whispered under the vast, star-pricked sky. They have adapted with us, just as we have adapted with them.

So, What is a story?

"Stories are the creative conversion of life itself into a more powerful, clearer, more meaningful experience. They are the currency of human contact."
— Robert McKee

Remember at the start when I asked you to form your own answer to this question? What did you think? How do you feel about your answer now, and has it changed at all? Really, try to think about this for a moment.

Can you think of a narrative from your own life which has shaped you the most? If so, let me know in the comments, alongside your definition of a story.

In trying to rationalise my own answer, the poet in me wants to write—”a story is the point in human affairs at which, without being explicitly aimed or pointed, a collection of words becomes capable of something so small and so innocent, like making a child laugh or a grown man cry—while simultaneously holding the unprecedented power to topple empires or convince US, we who are forged in ego, curiosity and desire, that a substance and a purpose far greater than our own belongs to that which will forever be, just out of reach.”

But I'm not really a fan of that answer, so another.

A story then, it seems, is….

Yours in thoughtful inquiry,

Matthew.

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