If a decision is made without witnesses, is it still valid?

The original question – “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” – is a centuries-old thought experiment, rooted in the philosophy of George Berkeley.

George Berkeley was an Irish philosopher from the 18th century who believed that our reality is tied to perception. His big idea was summed up in the phrase esse est percipi, “to be is to be perceived.” Put simply, he argued that things only really matter when they’re experienced or noticed by someone.

Recently, I’ve found myself questioning the intent behind some viral trends: feats of endurance, acts of kindness, challenges with increasingly extreme parameters. And I wonder: When I apply Berkeley’s theory to today’s society, it raises uncomfortable questions. If a moment isn’t documented, did it actually happen? If a decision is made without witnesses, is it still valid? These questions are extremely relevant in the age of social media. Do our actions still “count” if no one sees them? The falling tree becomes a useful metaphor for modern life. If no one watches the video, likes the post, or shares the story, was the act still worth doing?

Would we still walk from Manchester to Ibiza in flip-flops?
Cycle, walk, run, or hitchhike across continents?
Film ourselves giving money to a stranger, or even giving them a makeover?
Stick to a 100-day challenge – whether it be about eating, painting pictures, or knitting scarves – if it weren’t also content?

Would we still do the “thing” – if no one saw it?

Many people take on these challenges for growth, resilience, purpose. But in a time when everything is shareable, it’s getting harder to tell where genuine motivation ends and performative content begins. When scrolling through online content, how often do we come across someone introducing themselves with: “Day 47 of tattooing a dot on my arm, until it is entirely covered.” “Day 19 of running a marathon every day.” “Day 3 of drinking two liters of milk every day.” From the smallest, random act to the strangest feat of endurance, we see it all. And the odd thing is: We seem to like it. Or rather, the algorithm rewards it. Repetition and imitation get traction. Consistency outperforms experimentation and creativity. The more a format is copied, the wider it spreads.

Take the “She deserved the purse” trend. It started with a creator hiding cash in nappy packs to help struggling mums. A generous idea. But once it went viral, supermarkets were ransacked by people filming themselves copying it or searching for hidden cash. The intention — kindness — dissolved into a performance. The focus shifted from the person who needed help to the person holding the camera.

There’s a layered problem here. First: the recipient. When generosity becomes content, the recipient’s dignity can be compromised. Their need is rendered into spectacle. Second: the performer. Viral success rewires incentives. If the reward is views, then replication is rational: simply copy the format that works. Third: the environment. Supermarkets and public spaces become stages, creating chaotic, sometimes harmful consequences for others who have nothing to do with the “performance.”

Regarding decision-making, or what motivates us, Berkeley’s thought experiment is useful because it asks a seemingly simple question: Do we act for the thing itself or for the audience? If existence and value depend on being observed, then decisions can easily drift from acting for ourselves to performative display.

Berkeley’s problem becomes a practical one: If no one is watching, does the choice to do, to act, retain its meaning? Would we still walk from Manchester to Ibiza in flip-flops? Henry Moores did. He completed an almost 1,200-mile walk and raised more than £55,000 for a children’s cancer charity. On the face of it, that’s heroic: grit, pain, money for a cause. But it also invites skepticism. Why the flip-flops? Why that route? Why the theatricality of the stunt? I can propose two different readings. The first sees Moores as someone who combined a sincere personal challenge with fundraising and succeeded in both. The other, more skeptical, reads the stunt as another instance where spectacle and charity intertwine: a performative, shareable narrative purely for social clout that works because it looks extreme and fits the format, thus feeding the same content cycle to the same audience. A charitable framing can make strange and extreme stunts appear worthy of support, even laudable. Repetition often outperforms experimentation — not because it’s inherently more meaningful or creative, but because platforms are designed to reward it. What looks like a personal choice is often an automated response to the incentives of the algorithm. The public spectacle of walking in flip-flops for charity forces us to ask: Would he have done it without an audience? And if not, is that a moral flaw in decision-making, or simply a reflection of how meaning is now constructed in a society where attention is currency? The difference lies in why we do what we do. Do we move because someone is watching, or because the act itself transforms us? That’s the shift from external validation to internal validation. From living for perception to living for growth.

Baudrillard’s idea of simulacra helps us understand this pattern even further. Acts don’t just get repeated, they become copies of copies, until they no longer point to the original meaning at all. Imagine a photocopy of a photocopy: each version drifts further from the source, until the end result barely resembles where it started. On social media, this happens constantly. A gesture like giving money to a stranger doesn’t just spread as generosity, it spreads as a format. What people recreate is not the act itself, but the image of the act. They use the content template. But it’s not only charity. We record workouts, morning routines, coffee rituals, even quiet moments with friends — not always because we want to capture them for ourselves, but because we know how they’ll look online. Attention, clout, validation. The recording itself becomes part of the act. At that point, the meaning shifts. Generosity, self-discipline, intimacy, all at risk of becoming less about what we’re doing, and more about how it plays out on the feed.

Guy Debord described this shift decades earlier with his concept of the spectacle, which described the way life is mediated through images until authentic interaction is replaced by performance. On social media platforms, acts aren’t only about what gets done. They’re about the story, the optics, the algorithmic reward. We are nudged to live less in the act itself, and more in the consumable version of the act. That tension is everywhere now.
Take MrBeast: His philanthropy is vast, with millions given away. But it’s also inextricably tied to his content model. Each act of giving is simultaneously charity and entertainment; and he earns more money from the content than he gives away. For some, it’s altruism packaged for clicks. For others, it’s pragmatic: If spectacle funds generosity, is that necessarily a bad thing?

We’ve created a culture where existence and meaning often feel dependent on documentation. Where being seen validates being. Where the act alone is no longer enough – it must also perform. The ideas of Berkeley, Baudrillard and Debord push us to consider how imitation transforms meaning. How the decision to act is motivated by honest intention or by the audience.

Should we stop filming everything and go back to living in private? That’s not realistic. But if we accept that documentation changes the incentive structure, we should at least take responsibility for the reasons why we do what we do. Ask yourself the simplest question: Would I still do this without filming it for content? If the answer is no, why?

It could be for one of the many reasons discussed, but also for accountability. Many people now lean on their audience to keep them consistent — “Day 3, Day 19, Day 47…” – public commitment can be a powerful motivator. But what happened to cultivating accountability within ourselves? When our discipline is outsourced to spectators, we risk building habits that collapse when no one is watching. The harder, but more rewarding, work is to find the desire within ourselves. To do the thing because we said we would, not because others expect it. We’ve grown so accustomed to counting views that sometimes we forget the deeper importance: how it feels to live with the consequences of our own choices. Because at the end of the day, it’s not the audience that carries the outcome of our actions. It’s us.

When we learn to listen to our inner compass, we discover a different kind of motivation. Not the fear of being unseen, but the desire to evolve. That’s how growth works: not always in public, not always visible, but always consequential. Every choice we make has the potential to move us closer to who we want to be. Not the life that looks good online. Not the life an audience expects. The one that feels true when no one else is around.

The point isn’t to shame people for posting or recording; it’s to restore agency to the act of making decisions. Berkeley reminds us that perception shapes reality. Baudrillard warns us that imitation can drain meaning. Debord highlights how images structure our daily lives. But none of them argue against action. They ask us to decide more consciously.

If we reframe it, the modern question becomes: How do we make decisions while also being aware of the performance economy and the systems that reward certain behaviors?

I’m not saying don’t create or share. I’m just asking: What truly motivates us?

And maybe the better question is:
What would you still do, even if no one ever knew?