(Or, How to Survive Society’s Never-Ending Performance Without Actually Knowing Your Lines)
Erving Goffman’s dramaturgical theory suggests that all of social life is just one giant performance. At some point, most of us have had that creeping suspicion that everyone else got the manual on how to be a functional adult, while we were left clutching an incomplete set of IKEA instructions. That feeling, dear reader, is not paranoia—it is sociology.
Whether it’s a job interview, a first date, or awkward small talk in the office kitchen about someone’s latest doomed diet, we are constantly playing roles, switching between different versions of ourselves, and hoping no one notices the occasional awkward stage direction. For most people, this performance is so deeply ingrained that they barely register they’re doing it. But for those of us who need to consciously decode social scripts—do we shake hands? Do we hug? Why is this person laughing, and should I join in? Goffman’s work is both a revelation and a tragic confirmation that, yes, it really is all a bit of a farce. As someone who is neurodivergent I find Goffman’s particular brand of thinking particularly useful.
The Front Stage and Back Stage of Everyday Life
Goffman’s dramaturgical model is based on the idea that, in social situations, we all present ourselves in ways that best suit the role we want to play. Think of it as being like a BBC drama: polished on the surface but filled with subtext, awkward pauses, and at least one character on the brink of an existential crisis. He breaks this down into two key concepts: front stage and back stage.
The front stage is the you that you show the world—professional, composed, probably making acceptable eye contact and nodding at the right moments. The back stage is the real you—slumped on the sofa at 11pm, binge-watching a detective show you don’t even like, whilst Googling “is there such a thing as too much toast?”
The problem is that in many aspects of life, especially for those of us who struggle with social performance, the backstage barely exists. The constant need to perform can be exhausting, particularly in environments that demand a polished version of yourself at all times. Anyone who has worked in customer service knows this well—smiling through gritted teeth while Karen from accounts asks to speak to the manager again.
For Marx, this constant performance would be yet another symptom of capitalist alienation. Much like how workers become estranged from the fruits of their labour, social actors become detached from their authentic selves, playing roles dictated by economic and cultural expectations rather than genuine identity. Meanwhile, Max Weber might step in to point out that modern society’s obsession with efficiency and rationalisation means we’ve built social structures that actively discourage people from ever stepping out of character. The bureaucratic machine does not reward those who deviate from the script.
The High-Stakes Game of Impression Management
One of Goffman’s greatest insights is the concept of impression management: the ways we control (or attempt to control) how others perceive us. It starts early.
Children learn quickly that throwing a tantrum in a supermarket is bad optics (unless you’re two years old, in which case, go off, king). Later in life, we refine the art of managing impressions. Social media is a carefully curated highlight reel because nothing says “well-balanced adult” like a strategically lit avocado toast post. Emails to your boss become a torturous tightrope walk between being professional, not sounding robotic, and not accidentally signing off with “Love you.”
Workplace small talk becomes a moment of existential dread when someone asks, “How was your weekend?” and you realise you did nothing remotely interesting. Pierre Bourdieu would argue that much of this is tied to social capital—those who instinctively know the unspoken rules of impression management tend to rise through social and professional ranks. The rest of us are left frantically Googling “what to say in an email when you don’t want to sound passive-aggressive.”
At university, I once sat through a tutorial where I had done precisely none of the reading, but through the sheer force of vague statements like “it’s really interesting how the author challenges the dominant paradigm,” I managed to sound intelligent enough that my tutor nodded approvingly. That, my friends, is impression management in action.
Facework: The Art of Avoiding Public Humiliation
Goffman also introduces the concept of facework, which describes the efforts we make to maintain a socially acceptable “face” (or persona). Life, it turns out, is a series of social blunders that must be swiftly covered up. Some classics include waving at someone who wasn’t waving at you, then pretending you were just fixing your hair, which is great if you are like me and have longer hair, but not so great an idea if you are bald.
Loudly agreeing to something you didn’t hear, only to realise you’ve just committed to a five-mile charity run, or accidentally calling a teacher “Mum” and then considering leaving the country. For neurodivergent individuals, facework can be particularly challenging. Social interactions often feel like they come with an extra layer of unspoken rules, and the effort to keep up can be extremely exhausting. But here’s the secret: everyone is faking it to some degree.
In my undergraduate days I once attempted to make a joke in a seminar that landed so poorly that there was a silence so profound I could hear the fluorescent lights humming. In that moment, I understood the concept of facework on a deeply personal level. I laughed a little too loudly, nodded as if I’d made a profound point, and carried on. The tutor, mercifully, let it slide.
Durkheim, ever the functionalist, would likely argue that our collective obsession with maintaining face is what holds society together. It is the unspoken rules and rituals of daily life that prevent total social chaos. Without them, we would be little more than slightly evolved apes screaming at one another in Tesco.
The Perils of Breaking Character
Goffman argues that when our social performance falters, it leads to embarrassment, awkwardness, and, occasionally, the desire to relocate to a remote island and live as a hermit. Some examples of when the performance collapses include being so focused on appearing interested in a conversation that you forget to actually listen. Laughing at a joke you didn’t understand, then being asked to explain why it was funny. Calling someone by the wrong name multiple times and realising there is no way out of it. It’s at these moments that you realise the entire system is held together by collective pretending. We are all part of an unspoken social agreement to overlook each other’s blunders in exchange for the same courtesy.
Public transport, particularly in Britain, is a great example of collective pretending. A bus driver once misheard my destination, and instead of correcting him, I just accepted my fate and took an unplanned detour. Correcting him would have broken the unspoken rule that we must avoid unnecessary social confrontation. Goffman would be proud.
The Great Social Hoax: No One Actually Knows What They’re Doing
The greatest takeaway from Goffman is that everyone is improvising. Even the most seemingly confident, well-adjusted people are just better at sticking to the script. If they deviate, they recover quickly. That’s it. That’s the trick.
So, what do we do with this information? Accept that social awkwardness is universal. The next time you overanalyse a conversation from five years ago, remember: the other person probably forgot about it five minutes later. Learn to lean into the absurdity. Once you realise social norms are just made-up performance guidelines, they become far less intimidating. Find spaces where you don’t have to act. True backstage spaces—where you can just exist, without performance expectations—are essential for maintaining sanity.
Goffman was right: life is a performance, but that doesn’t mean you have to be on all the time. Understanding the theatrical nature of social life is freeing—it reminds us that we’re all just actors in a sometimes-ridiculous, often-exhausting play. But knowing when to step off stage, when to drop the mask, and when to stop worrying about whether you nailed your lines? That’s the real trick.
AJ Wright is a quiet yet incisive voice navigating the surreal world of sociology, higher education, and modern life through the unique lens of a neurodivergent mind. A tech-savvy PhD student hailing from South Yorkshire but now stationed in the flatlands of Lincolnshire, AJ writes with an irreverence that strips back the layers of academia, social norms, and the absurdities of daily life to reveal the humour lurking beneath.
As an autistic thinker, AJ’s perspective offers readers a rare blend of precision, curiosity, and wit. From dissecting the unspoken rituals of academia—like the silent war over the office thermostat—to exploring the sociology of “neurotypical small talk” and the bizarre hierarchies of campus coffee queues, AJ turns the ordinary into something both profound and hilarious.
AJ’s unassuming nature belies the sharpness of their commentary, which dives deep into the intersections of neurodiversity, tech culture, and the often-overlooked quirks of human behaviour. Whether questioning why university bureaucracy feels designed by Kafka or crafting surreal parodies of academic peer reviews, AJ writes with a balance of quiet intensity and playful absurdity that keeps readers coming back for more.
For those seeking a blog that is equal parts insightful, irreverent, and refreshingly authentic, AJ Wright provides a unique perspective that celebrates neurodiversity while poking fun at the peculiarities of the world we live in.
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