In 1737, in pre-revolutionary Philadelphia, Benjamin Franklin—then a young man at the outset of his public career, a long way from the statesman whose likeness now graces the hundred-dollar bill—found himself in a situation that could have threatened his career before it had even begun.

At the time, Franklin served as clerk of the Pennsylvania General Assembly: an ostensibly administrative role, yet one that carried considerable political importance and required skill in navigating competing interests and dominant personalities. His path, however, was blocked by a newly arrived lawmaker—a wealthy, educated man of high standing whose name Franklin never mentioned in his writings. This omission may have been a matter of discretion, but the hostility this man harbored toward Franklin was open and undeniable.

The political rival did not stop at ideological disagreement. In a public speech delivered before the Assembly, he attacked Franklin harshly, called his competence into question, and impugned his integrity. For Franklin, who was sensitive about his standing and reputation, this was clear and immediate danger.

In situations such as these, human instinct often opts for one of two responses: striking back and descending into a cycle of retaliation, or attempting to win over the rival through flattery, appeasement, and gifts. But Franklin, whose approach to daily life was as empirical and calculated as that of a scientist in his laboratory, understood that both paths were bound to fail. A direct confrontation would yield a perpetual enemy; flattery would be perceived as weakness or hypocrisy.

Instead, Franklin chose a third path—sophisticated, quiet, and bold, grounded in a deep intuitive understanding of human nature; one that would not receive scientific validation for another 230 years. He knew that his rival was a learned man, “a gentleman of fortune and education,” who took great pride in his private book collection. Franklin also learned that this legislator possessed a certain “very scarce and curious book”—a collector’s item that few had had the privilege of examining.

Franklin sat down and penned his rival a short note with uncommon courtesy. He offered no apology and proposed no conciliation. Instead, he asked for a favor: He expressed his keen desire to read that rare book and requested to borrow it for a few days.

The response was swift. The legislator sent the book that very day. Franklin read it with great interest, and a week later returned it to its owner with a warm thank you note, full of genuine appreciation for the gesture.

What happened at their next encounter in the General Assembly was nothing short of remarkable: That same bitter rival, who had previously ignored Franklin or addressed him with contempt, approached him and spoke to him “with great civility.” From that point on, he was eager to assist Franklin at every opportunity, and the two even developed a friendship that lasted until the legislator’s death.

This observation, known today as the “Ben Franklin Effect,” upends the simple logic of give-and-take and reveals a profound paradox in human relationships: The way to someone’s heart does not always run through what we give them; sometimes, it runs through what we allow them to give us.

To understand how Franklin succeeded in converting deep-seated hostility into genuine affection, one must unpack the mental mechanisms that shape our self-perception.

Psychological literature offers two main explanations for the Ben Franklin Effect: cognitive dissonance theory and self-perception theory.

The Benjamin Franklin statue in the rotunda of The Franklin Institute in Philadelphia. Sculpted by James Earle Fraser. Felix Lipov/Shutterstock

In the case of Franklin’s rival, the very act of lending the book created an obvious internal conflict. His mind was forced to contend with two contradictory cognitions:

Cognition A (attitude): “I detest Benjamin Franklin; he is a political opponent deserving of contempt and censure.”

Cognition B (behavior): “I lent Benjamin Franklin a rare and valuable book.”

This contradiction generates internal tension, and the cognitive system, striving for equilibrium, works to reduce the dissonance. One way to achieve that is to change the attitude (“Perhaps he is not such a bad person”), though other strategies also exist: justifying the behavior (“I did it out of politeness”), downplaying the importance of the act (“It’s just a book”), or adding an external rationale that neutralizes the contradiction.

In Franklin’s case, it is reasonable to assume that the chosen resolution was a gradual shift in attitude. Lending the book was a personal, voluntary, and unconstrained act—one that does not sit comfortably with the image of an “enemy.” The simplest way to bridge the gap was to refresh one’s self-perception: “If I helped him of my own free will, he must not be as worthy of contempt as I thought. I am hardly the kind of man who is weak or foolish enough to bestow his favors upon someone he hates. If I lent him the book, perhaps he has admirable qualities: He is educated, he appreciates good literature, and he conducts himself with courtesy. In fact, perhaps I even like him.”

Thus the circle closes: the new cognition (“I like Franklin”) fits comfortably with the behavior (“I lent him a book.”)

As participants processed the negative information and reached a conclusion that aligned with their beliefs, brain regions associated with reward and reinforcement learning became active. Researchers interpreted it as a sign of neurochemical relief or reward following the discovery of an explanation that emotionally stabilized the situation. In other words, the brain may “reward” itself for resolving the dissonance, thereby transforming the resolution of contradiction into a soothing biological need that at times overrides rational judgment.

Human beings are driven by a powerful internal impulse to maintain consonance among their beliefs, attitudes, and behaviors. Igor Dutina/Shutterstock

Bem argued that we often do not have direct and reliable access to our own feelings and attitudes, especially in ambiguous situations where our internal emotions are unclear. In such cases, we learn about ourselves the same way we learn about others: by observing our own overt behavior and drawing conclusions from it.

From this perspective, Franklin’s rival does not necessarily experience a burning internal conflict. Instead, he observes his actions as an outsider would and asks himself: “What does my behavior say about me?”

The answer is simple: “I lent a rare book to Franklin. People lend books to friends, not to enemies. From this follows the logical conclusion: I must regard Franklin as a friend, or at the very least not as a hostile person.”

The key difference between the two theories lies in the psychological engine of change. In cognitive dissonance theory, the shift in attitude is born of internal discomfort that demands resolution. In self-perception theory, the transformation is the product of a simple, almost mechanical inference from behavior to identity.

Yet despite these mechanistic differences, both approaches arrive at the same practical insight: investing in another person, even in a small, seemingly superficially way, can generate emotional commitment toward them. Whether the mind seeks to resolve an internal contradiction or simply learns about itself from its own actions, the deed often precedes—and sometimes even creates—the feeling.

Their goal was to isolate the variable of doing a favor as cleanly as possible and to examine whether the act itself—even when small, mundane, and lacking any social charm—could influence how someone felt about the person who asked for it. They worked hard to rule out alternative explanations such as politeness, social pressure, or natural interpersonal dynamics.

To that end, they constructed an experiment framed as an intellectual competition: Students were invited to take part in a cognitive task with the chance to win a cash prize. The researcher (experimenter) kept the interaction formal and deliberately acted less likable to avoid early affinity that might obscure the effect under investigation.

The results were surprising and even counterintuitive: Participants who had received a personal, direct request from the researcher to return the money tended to rate him as more likable and pleasant compared with the control group. In other words, doing him a favor actually improved their opinion of him. The impersonal-request group (via the secretary), by contrast, showed no such improvement—and in some cases rated him even lower than the control group did.

The comparison across the three groups indicates that the key factor was not the mere act of returning the money, but rather the interpersonal nature of the request.

When dealing with an institutional request, it is easy to justify the action as compliance with procedure or as a contribution to the system (“I did it for the university” or “for research”), without needing to adjust their view of the researcher himself.

It turns out that sometimes the same mechanism can operate in precisely the opposite direction with the same mechanical efficiency, producing a phenomenon known as the “Reverse Ben Franklin Effect”—or in academic parlance: the Justification of Cruelty.

When a person who sees themselves as moral, fair, and even compassionate causes another to suffer, a sharp dissonance arises within them. On one side is the self-perception: “I am a good and decent person”; on the other is the action: “I harmed this person—I struck, insulted, robbed, or humiliated them.”

One way to resolve the contradiction is to acknowledge the mistake, apologize, or attempt to repair the damage. In practice, however, the mind often chooses a more psychologically convenient path: Instead of changing the behavior, it justifies the action after the fact.

One of the most common justifications is to blame the victim and diminish their human worth: “I harmed them not because I am a bad person, but because they are bad. They deserve it. They are dangerous, foolish, inferior.” In extreme cases, this can lead to dehumanization: “In fact, they are not even human.”

Human history is rife with chilling examples of the Reverse Ben Franklin Effect: prison guards, soldiers on the battlefield, and even children enforcing social ostracism—all may activate the same internal logic that justifies harm by victim-blaming.

A less dramatic, yet illuminating example can be found in the world of canine training. Studies on different training methods indicate that the mode of training affects not only the dog’s behavior and well-being, but also the quality of the bond between the dog and its owner.

Researcher and author Zazie Todd, a psychologist and animal behavior expert specializing in human-animal relationships and training methods, noted that the choice of training method influences not only the dog but also the way in which the owner interprets its behavior.

Owners who use punishment-based methods—such as “corrections,” choke collars, or physical force—may experience a degree of moral discomfort if they perceive themselves as good people yet end up frightening or harming their dog. To ease that dissonance, some adopt justifying narratives: the dog is “stubborn,” “dominant,” and “acting out of spite.” These labels shift responsibility from the person causing the harm onto the animal receiving it.

Conversely, consistent positive reinforcement, such as treats, praise, play, and reward, not only changes the dog’s behavior, but also fosters a more positive opinion of the dog on the owner’s part. The repeated investment in nurturing and benevolent behavior may deepen the sense of closeness and affection.

In this sense, we can see a conceptual parallel to the Ben Franklin Effect: Consistent acts of giving, care, and nurturing are not merely an expression of love—they can also strengthen love. This happens not through any “magic,” but because we tend to align what we repeatedly do with how we perceive a relationship.

Consistent positive reinforcement not only changes the dog’s behavior, but also fosters a more positive opinion of the dog on the owner’s part. Marino bocelli/Shutterstock