Devil's Advocate: Is Small-Talk Valuable to Society?
YES: Alex McQuibban
Picture this: you’re at work… in Britain, meaning it’s likely bucketing down and you probably aren’t fond of it. You’ve been slaving away for hours at your desk to the metronomic pitter-patter of the rain. Naturally, you’ve built up quite the thirst. So, you decide to get some water. A co-worker has the same idea. By sheer luck or tragic misfortune, you both reach the water cooler simultaneously, awkwardly gesturing at each other to go first. You give in, bowing your head, letting out a muffled “cheers.” Assuming your work is not urgent, would you rather your co-worker say absolutely nothing, waiting diligently for you to fill your cup so you can hurry to your desk, or throw you a conversational bone — something like, “Ghastly weather we’re having, eh?”
If you’re like me, the second option is far more appealing. Sharing meteorological platitudes is an important social ritual which eases tension, fosters empathy, and shows your willingness to coexist with others. In the workplace, it signals your shared solidarity; in other spaces, it signals your shared humanity.
If this ritual bothers you, you likely possess an increasingly trendy personality quirk consisting of deriding small talk as trivial, awkward, and wholly unproductive. ‘Small talk detractors’ take particular pride in contrasting small talk with ‘big talk’. Being very wise and interesting, supposedly, small-talk detractors are simply better suited to deep insightful conversations than their Neanderthalic small-talking counterparts.
Unsurprisingly, I think these detractors are wrong. When done correctly, small talk is both incredibly valuable in itself and enables big talk. It is the surest way to create social bonds — crucially so, between strangers with radically different backgrounds. After all, people scarcely share exact interests, but almost everyone can talk about the weather. If they have the misfortune of living in Britain, they may even have strong opinions on it.
Hence, small talk might start off banal, but, through enough wit and social manoeuvring, it develops. “Ghastly weather we’re having, eh?” might prompt “Aye, might as well’ve stuck my head outside the window — would’ve saved me the walk,” followed by, “Bet the boss would like that; anything to keep us chained to our desks.” Ultimately, otherwise unremarkable exchanges can quickly enable funny, flirtatious, or even the fabled ‘deep’ conversations, making small talk both an unreflective therapeutic practice and a delicate art form capable of blossoming into so much more.
As for small talk detractors’ supposed intellectual superiority: I ask those unfortunate enough to have dated someone claiming not to like small talk to recall the ‘insights’ their date brought to the table. Countless nights have been ruined by half-baked pseudo-philosophical rants about how we’re “totally living in a simulation, man,” capped off by a suspiciously well-rehearsed rendition of ‘Wonderwall’. Ultimately, good ‘small talkers’ make for proficient ‘big talkers’, whereas self-proclaimed big talkers severely overestimate themselves.
Of course, there exists a segment of the population for whom small talk is positively terrifying. To those lovely neurodivergent souls, I extend my deepest sympathies. I myself have trouble following conversational norms strictly — I frequently overshare and am simply incapable of not saying what’s on my mind. I ask my fellow small talkers to accommodate those clinically allergic to small talk, but I implore others to appreciate its intricacies and importance and to reconsider any misplaced scorn they have associated with it. A little small talk might just make for a more harmonious, understanding, and interesting society.
NO: Agata Mala
There’s a common assumption that hating on small talk is performative — a trendy pose struck by those who think it makes them sound deep and intellectually superior. And sure, maybe for some, it’s a quirky aesthetic. But let me assure you, as a neurodivergent individual, my disdain for small talk isn’t some sort of artsy rebellion — it’s a genuine, soul-sucking experience. Small talk is not just boring; it’s a high-stakes sport, one that I, and many like me, are forced to compete in daily, despite the fact that we didn’t ask for the team jersey.
Let’s be real — small talk follows a script so artificial it could’ve been written by ChatGPT. "How are you?" you ask, not because you care, but because an unspoken social norm requires it of you. And when you ask me, you already know my answer: "Fine, thank you," I say, with all the conviction of a dial tone. I know, and you know, that you don’t give a single crap about how I’m actually doing. No offence taken — I don’t care how you’re doing either! Yet now I must dutifully throw the question back at you like a game of emotional hot potato. It's not a conversation — it’s a linguistic treadmill, and I'm stuck at 0.5 km/h, silently praying for a fire drill to get me out of this hellish loop.
And it's not just the interaction itself that’s the issue. Small talk comes with a plethora of nonsensical, contradictory rules. Take eye contact for example: too little and you’re rude; too much and suddenly, you’re a serial killer. Then there’s the question of smiling. Smile, but not too much — we’re not trying to look like a Barbie doll here. Oh, and make sure your tone is friendly, but not too friendly, lest you give off the "I want to start a cult" vibe. For neurotypical folks, maybe this dance feels natural — even fun! You get to exercise those well-practised social muscles, exchanging pleasantries like seasoned pros. But for many individuals, it’s a constant, exhausting mental checklist of “Am I doing this right?” and “Did I just come off as rude?” followed by hours of post-interaction anxiety about what subtle social cue you likely missed.
Let’s talk numbers. Our time on this planet is limited, right? If you add up all the time spent a) engaging in small talk, b) worrying about the possible faux pas committed during small talk, and c) defending the right not to engage in it (which I am currently doing with the fervour of a frustrated philosopher), you’ve probably lost years of your life to this useless ritual. Years we could’ve spent bonding over meaningful conversations or just standing in blissful silence — an option that doesn’t get nearly enough credit.
In short, for some of us — even, I suspect, beyond the neurodivergents of the world — small talk is the daily equivalent of being forced to play a never-ending game of chess, except you’re blindfolded and don’t actually know the rules. It’s draining, confusing, and often feels like it’s more about dodging invisible landmines than fostering genuine connection. So, if I don’t ask how you’re doing next time we bump into each other, it’s not because I don’t care about you as a person — it’s because I care too much about conserving my own mental energy and sanity.
Illustration by Calum Mayor
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