Most explanations of evolutionary psychology begin with the same premise.

Human beings evolved to ensure the survival of the species.

It sounds reasonable. In fact, it sounds so reasonable that most of us never stop to question it.

Recently, I found myself doing exactly that.

The more I thought about it, the less convinced I became that survival is actually the right word.

Imagine, for a moment, that there were one million human beings on Earth and every single one of them lived forever.

No disease. No ageing. No death.

The species survives indefinitely.

Job done.

The objective has been achieved.

Yet when we look at nature, that isn’t what we observe at all.

Life does not appear satisfied with survival.

Life expands.

Every available niche becomes occupied. Species spread into new territories. Populations increase. Resources are consumed. Competitors are displaced. New environments are conquered. Again and again we see the same pattern repeated.

Growth.

Expansion.

The human story is perhaps the most dramatic example of all.

Our ancestors began in a relatively small corner of Africa. Today, humans occupy virtually every habitable part of the planet. We have transformed landscapes, redirected rivers, altered ecosystems and pushed countless species to the brink of extinction. We have not simply survived.

We have expanded.

This is why I wonder whether evolutionary psychology may be framing the objective incorrectly.

Survival appears to be a prerequisite.

Reproduction appears to be a mechanism.

Population growth appears to be the engine.

But expansion appears to be the direction of travel.

The distinction might seem trivial, but I don’t think it is.

If survival were the objective, a stable immortal population would solve the problem.

If expansion is the objective, however, then growth never really ends. There is always another frontier, another opportunity, another resource, another territory, another capability to develop.

The system is never satisfied.

And that observation leads to a much more interesting question.

What does that mean for us as individuals?

Most modern wellbeing models tell us that achievement, purpose, mastery, growth and contribution are good things.

Positive psychology is built upon ideas such as meaning, accomplishment and engagement. Self-help literature encourages us to become better versions of ourselves. Organisations encourage employees to find purpose in their work. Leadership books tell us to pursue bigger goals.

The underlying assumption is rarely challenged.

These things are considered components of wellbeing.

But what if they aren’t?

What if they are components of expansion?

The more I think about it, the more I wonder whether we have confused the incentives with the outcome.

Achievement feels good.

Why?

Purpose feels good.

Why?

Mastery feels good.

Why?

Curiosity feels good.

Why?

The traditional answer is that these things contribute to human flourishing.

An evolutionary answer might be rather different.

Perhaps these things feel rewarding because they encourage behaviours that support expansion.

A person driven by achievement works harder.

A person driven by mastery develops greater capability.

A person driven by curiosity explores new possibilities.

A person driven by purpose persists when others give up.

Viewed through this lens, many of the things we call wellbeing begin to look less like wellbeing and more like motivational tools.

Nature rewards the behaviours that help the species continue to grow.

This creates a fascinating tension.

Imagine sitting quietly in a chair.

No anxiety.

No ambition.

No desire to become something else.

No need to accumulate more money, more status, more recognition or more achievement.

Just complete contentment with this moment exactly as it is.

From the perspective of personal wellbeing, that sounds remarkably close to success.

From the perspective of expansion, however, it is almost useless.

A content person is not striving.

Not competing.

Not conquering.

Not expanding.

This is where the interests of the individual and the interests of the species may begin to diverge.

The species benefits when individuals remain slightly dissatisfied. Slightly restless. Slightly convinced that fulfilment lies just beyond the next achievement.

The individual may benefit from something entirely different.

Contentment.

Presence.

Acceptance.

Enough.

For thousands of years, wisdom traditions have pointed in this direction. Stoics spoke about wanting what you already have. Buddhists spoke about the suffering created by craving. Both recognised that the mind continually creates the illusion that happiness exists somewhere else.

Perhaps they were observing the same tension.

Part of us is driven by an ancient expansion programme that constantly seeks more.

Another part of us longs for peace.

Neither side is necessarily wrong.

The problem is that we often mistake one for the other.

We assume that because achievement feels rewarding it must therefore be the same thing as wellbeing.

We assume that because purpose feels meaningful it must therefore be the destination.

Maybe it isn’t.

Maybe achievement, purpose and growth are incentives that serve expansion.

Maybe contentment serves the individual.

If that is true, then one of the most important questions we can ask ourselves is not how to achieve more, but whether we can recognise the difference between what serves the species and what serves us.

Because they may not always be the same thing.