Jordan Peterson's grift operates on dual tracks: empirically, he weaponizes clinical psychology against vulnerability while mythologically cosplaying as a demigod fighting chaos dragons. Initially, he sold self-actualization (clean your room!) but pivoted to monetizing reactionary anxiety. His 12 Rules preached personal responsibility while his outrage grift—trans issues, "cultural Marxism"—absolved his base of systemic critique.

Empirically, note the bait-and-switch: academic credentials legitimize his "facts," but he drowns substantive debates in Gish gallops of Jungian archetypes. Data shows his audience skews young males adrift—he sells them patriarchal order as antidote to modernity's "chaos," yet his own addiction crisis mirrored the fragility he pathologizes.

Mythopoeically, he's a failed shaman channeling Pinocchio's Pleasure Island. He paints himself as a Solzhenitsyn-esque truth-teller but operates a multi-tier patronage scheme: $50k/month Patreon, lobotomy-tier self-help courses, Daily Wire paychecks—all while ranting about "postmodern neomarxists." His archetypal "Order vs. Chaos" narrative masks crude culture-war profiteering.

Crucially, he exploits the meaning crisis he diagnoses: offering faux-depth ("sort yourself out") while amplifying the very chaos he claims to combat. Peterson doesn't slay dragons—he breeds them, sells armor, then charges rent for dragon-storage. The tragic irony? His ideology intensifies the alienation his psychology purports to heal.