I have increasingly come to feel that fortune-telling seems accurate not simply because ancient people were “statistically summarizing life,” but because they and we are, at bottom, the same kind of human being. Many of our deepest tendencies have not fundamentally changed. Our similar biological makeup, the long continuity of survival pressure, and our desire to catch a piece of luck within a finite life all make fortune-telling feel as though it keeps speaking directly to us.
If we slowly unpack this idea, there is actually a complete loop behind it.
First, our underlying tendencies have not fundamentally changed. “The ancients were us, and we are the ancients” is not only a literary or emotional idea; it also reflects a kind of biological continuity. Human evolution moves slowly, while civilization changes quickly. So although modern people live in a very different world, many of the mechanisms inside us are still ancient: we are alert to risk, we pursue resources, we seek certainty, we crave security, and we are especially sensitive to loss.
That is why ancient descriptions of life’s ups and downs, of gain and loss, of relationships and fate, can still strike us so deeply today. The era has changed, daily life has changed, social rules have changed, but the human response to uncertainty, loss, and the future has not changed nearly as much. When ancient words still feel as if they are speaking to us, it is not necessarily because they are mystical. It is because the object they describe has not changed that much.
Second, why are human beings never fully satisfied? I increasingly feel that this is not merely moral greed. It is more like a survival program left behind by evolution. A creature that keeps exploring, searching, storing, and staying alert is more likely to survive. Because of that, it is hard for human beings to remain in a state of “this is enough.” We keep wanting a little more, a little safer, a little more stable.
Even when external conditions improve, the internal system does not immediately become quiet. It does not simply stop running because we now have food, shelter, and relative safety. It still pushes us forward. It still makes us compare, worry, fear loss, and feel that something is missing. So although modern people do not necessarily face famine or war in the same direct way that ancient people did, we still feel tense in other ways: afraid of not being good enough, afraid of falling behind, afraid of losing control, afraid of an uncertain future.
Third, survival pressure has not disappeared. It has only changed form. In ancient times, pressure was more direct: not having enough to eat, not being able to survive, being trapped by social status. In modern life, pressure has become institutionalized, normalized, and hidden inside daily life: education, work, mortgage payments, competition, relationships, self-worth, age anxiety. It is no longer as naked as it once was, but that does not mean it is gone.
Sometimes we assume that modern people have moved beyond survival pressure, but that is not really true. Ancient pressure was like a blade; modern pressure is more like a net. It is less visible, but it still wraps itself around people’s lives. We still have to secure our place, search for stability, and worry about resources, relationships, the future, and our own sense of value. From ancient times to the present, people have always lived under some form of survival pressure. Only the outer shell has changed. That also helps explain why so many forms of human suffering feel similar across time.
Finally, there is our longing for luck. I have always felt that luck matters not because people are too lazy to work hard, but because life is finite. Effort matters, of course. But timing, opportunity, the right person, shifts in the environment, health, emotional connection — so much of that remains outside our control. People want to believe that effort explains most things, but the longer one lives, the clearer it becomes that effort does not explain everything.
If life were infinite, perhaps luck would eventually even out. What does not come today might come later. What one misses in one stage of life might be recovered in another. But human life is not infinite. That is why it matters so much whether luck arrives while we are still able to receive it. And because luck is uncontrollable, people naturally long for some form of explanation, some sign, some hint, some possibility of knowing in advance. That is why people turn to fortune-telling. They want to know their fortune. They want to know when to wait, when to act, and when to avoid risk.
Once we see this, the loop closes.
People seek fortune-telling because they feel luck matters. People believe in it more easily because it seems to speak accurately about human life. And fortune-telling seems accurate because it is always speaking to the same kind of person — a person whose basic tendencies have not changed very much, who continues to live under survival pressure, and who hopes to catch some luck within a finite life.
So fortune-telling feels accurate not only because it resembles an ancient form of life statistics, but because it captures something stable in the human condition itself. It does not simply “see” one person’s future. It understands human nature and the structure of human life. It knows desire, vulnerability, attachment, wishful thinking, relationships, and loss. It knows the recurring patterns of human life: wanting and not getting, gaining and then losing, brief satisfaction, long unease, occasional luck, and the fact that all of us must ultimately face our limits.
Seen this way, what makes fortune-telling persuasive may not be whether it can truly predict the future. What it does, again and again, is recognize the conditions of being human.
Fortune-telling feels accurate because it keeps speaking to the same kind of human being: someone living under survival pressure, seeking security, and hoping to catch a piece of luck within a finite life.