Disclaimer: this guide contains traces of sarcasm, logic, and mild philosophical breakdowns. Please consult your conscience before applying any of this to your actual life.

So you want to be a good person—or at least you want to sound like one in arguments. Whether you're a freshman philosophy major or someone who once said, "I believe in vibes" at a dinner party, you’ve probably asked yourself, How do I know what's right?

Well, good news: a bunch of long-dead thinkers (and a few modern ones clinging to sanity by a thread) spent centuries overthinking that exact question. The result? A magical, infuriating buffet of moral theories, each one more confusing than the last.

Welcome to the world of ethical theories: where your feelings don’t matter, unless they do; where rules are everything, unless they’re not; and where morality might depend entirely on what country you’re standing in.

Ready? Let’s dive into the chaos—like a swan dive into an existential kiddie pool.

Principalism: the four-principle circus of medical morality

This one’s especially popular among doctors, nurses, and people who think clipboards are sexy. Principalism gives us four ethical MVPs: autonomy, beneficence, non-maleficence, and justice. It's like the Justice League of not accidentally murdering patients.

Autonomy is the idea that people can make their own choices, even if those choices are extremely dumb, like trying to cure a broken leg with essential oils. Beneficence insists you should help others, even if they’re annoying. Non-maleficence screams “Do No Harm!” at every opportunity, like a self-righteous parrot. And justice? Justice is all about fairness and making sure everyone gets the same number of ethically distributed juice boxes.

Put them all together, and you've got a moral balancing act so fragile, it makes a house of cards in a wind tunnel look stable. And when a real-life medical scenario throws all four principles into a blender, chaos reigns. But hey, at least it’s principled chaos.

Utilitarianism: happiness, math, and mild sociopathy

If you've ever justified eating your roommate’s last slice of pizza by saying, “But it made me really happy,” congrats—you’re flirting with utilitarianism. This theory is all about consequences, baby. The more happiness an action produces, the more moral it is.

Jeremy Bentham and John Stuart Mill were the OGs of moral math. They argued that if you can do something that increases overall happiness—even if it makes one person miserable—you should probably do it. Utilitarianism is the philosophy of trolley problems and people who say “Let’s optimize joy” unironically.

The upside? It's logical and scalable. The downside? Sometimes you're the one getting thrown under the trolley. Utilitarianism can get a bit dark if you squint at it. But that’s okay, because the majority of people are probably fine with it.

Deontology: rule followers anonymous

Enter Kant. The man, the myth, the moral stickler. Deontology is for people who love following rules more than they love people. In Kantland, actions are judged not by their consequences but by whether they follow The Rules™.

You must act according to duty, even if it leads to total disaster. Lying? Always wrong. Even to save a life. Even to save puppies. If your moral compass doesn’t come with an instruction manual and backup batteries, Kant would be very disappointed in you.

The great thing about deontology is that it's very clear-cut. The bad thing about deontology is that it's very clear-cut. It’s the moral equivalent of following a GPS into a lake because the rules said “turn left.”

Virtue ethics: be a good egg

Aristotle didn’t care much for rules or consequences. He cared about you—yes, you—you-you-developing your moral character like you’re training for the Ethics Olympics.

Virtue ethics is all about becoming a better person by practicing virtues like courage, honesty, and self-control. It’s less “What should I do?” and more “Who should I become?” It’s character-driven ethics, like a feel-good movie where your internal monologue is voiced by Morgan Freeman.

You’re supposed to develop your virtues through habit. So if you want to be brave, go out and do brave things. If you want to be wise, read books that aren’t Reddit threads. If you want to be generous, maybe start tipping your barista more than 5%.

The problem is that it’s sometimes vague. What does “courage” mean in 2025? Resisting the urge to reply to a text immediately? Probably. Maybe. Ethics is confusing.

Ethical relativism: everyone’s right (especially me)

If you’ve ever been in a debate where someone says, “Well, that’s just your truth,” congratulations—you’ve met ethical relativism. This theory says that moral truths depend on culture, society, or personal beliefs. Basically, morality is like fashion trends: what’s in today might be horrifying tomorrow.

In one place, eating insects is a delicacy. In another, it’s a Fear Factor challenge. Relativism says both are morally valid. No judgment. Just vibes.

This sounds great—until someone uses it to justify actual atrocities. “Hey, in my culture, stealing someone’s WiFi is a sacred ritual.” Uh… yikes.

The beauty of relativism is that it promotes tolerance. The curse of relativism is that it can also promote apathy. It’s a great way to avoid arguments—and also a great way to never take a moral stand. It's moral Switzerland: neutral, inoffensive, and ultimately not very helpful in a crisis.

Social contract theory: the ethical Netflix agreement

Imagine you and your neighbors all get together and decide, “Let’s not rob each other, and in return, we’ll build roads and have garbage collection.” That’s social contract theory. You give up a little freedom in exchange for security and social order. Like clicking “I agree” on society’s terms and conditions.

Hobbes, Locke, and Rousseau were the early subscribers. They believed that morality came from mutual agreement: we behave because we agreed to the rules. If someone breaks the deal—say, by turning left at a red light or starting a dictatorship—we reserve the right to raise philosophical hell.

Of course, it all hinges on the assumption that we’ve all agreed to the contract. But did we? Where’s the signature? The fine print? Who even read the whole document?

Still, this theory is the backbone of democracy, taxes, and why you feel vaguely guilty jaywalking even at 3 a.m.

Care ethics: feelings, soup, and moral hugs

Care ethics is the warm cinnamon roll of moral theories. It’s based on the idea that morality isn’t about logic or rules—it’s about relationships, empathy, and making sure your grandma is okay.

Developed in response to all the cold, rigid theories (lookin’ at you, Kant), care ethics says the real moral action is helping, listening, and nurturing. Forget abstract universals—focus on people, context, and actual needs.

It’s the philosophy behind bringing soup to your sick friend or choosing not to yell at the barista even though they spelled your name “Joffery” again. It’s also what powers most decent parents, good therapists, and the entirety of Mr. Rogers’ worldview.

Care ethics shines in everyday life. But try scaling it up to global policy, and it gets tricky. Can you care for everyone equally? Probably not. But you can try. And maybe bake banana bread while you're at it.

Ethical egoism: me, myself, and morality

This theory says, Stop pretending you’re a selfless angel. You’re not. And that’s fine. Ethical egoism argues that you should act in your own best interest because if everyone does what’s best for themselves, society will magically work better. Kind of like capitalism’s morally confused cousin.

You’re not being selfish—you’re being ethically selfish. You should protect your own happiness, well-being, and mental health. Go ahead. Take the last cookie. Set boundaries. Dump your toxic friend. Cancel that 9 a.m. brunch. All in the name of moral integrity.

Of course, taken too far, egoism turns into “I’m going to set this orphanage on fire because it’s good for my brand.” So, maybe add a dash of shame to taste.

Ethical egoism is liberating and empowering. But it’s also a slippery slope to becoming That Guy. You know the one. He drives a Tesla and talks about alpha mindsets while cutting the brunch line.

The grand ethical buffet: mix, match, survive

Here’s the truth: real life is messy. And no single theory has all the answers. Kant’s rules fall apart when feelings show up. Utilitarianism feels like a corporate spreadsheet. Care ethics melts under pressure. Egoism makes you lonely. And principalism feels like a moral sitcom with too many main characters.

In practice, we’re all moral patchworks. One moment, you're acting from duty like a good Kantian robot. The next, you're serving soup like a care ethics queen. Sometimes you just want to maximize happiness, and other times you just want to maximize your sleep schedule.

Being ethical doesn’t mean having all the answers. It means asking the right questions, owning your choices, and occasionally saying, “Wow, I might’ve morally flopped just now.” That’s growth.

So pick your theory. Mix them up. Make them dance. Let Kant and Aristotle argue on your shoulder while you try to decide if it’s okay to ghost someone who double-texted you.

And remember: the fact that you care about ethics at all already puts you ahead of most villains in history.

Now go forth and be morally chaotic—but self-aware about it.