Ultitarianism and Calculating Pleasure Minus Pain

Utilitarianism asks us to judge actions by their outcomes, aiming for the greatest good for the greatest number. I reflect on its core principles, weigh its strengths and weaknesses, and consider practical challenges I might face if I tried to live by it.

At its heart, utilitarianism measures right and wrong by a “felicific calculus” a method John Stuart Mill and Jeremy Bentham proposed for adding up pleasure and subtracting pain (Matthews & Hendricks, 2019). Act utilitarianism looks at each individual decision: if this action brings more net happiness, it is the right thing to do. Rule utilitarianism sets general rules that, if followed, tend to maximize well‑being overall (Dimmock & Fisher, 2017). For example, telling the truth usually promotes trust and welfare, so a rule against lying is justified even when one lie could benefit a few people.

I find the focus on consequences appealing. It encourages us to think beyond our own feelings and ask how our choices affect everyone. Yet pure act utilitarianism can demand sacrificing individual rights for the majority’s benefit. Brandt (1984) argues that rights matter and a theory that risks trampling them is flawed. I feel torn between these two approaches. I agree with act utilitarianism’s flexibility: it lets us treat each situation uniquely. But I side with rule utilitarianism in recognizing that stable moral rules protect people’s basic rights and prevent harmful exceptions from becoming the norm (Dimmock & Fisher, 2017).

Is utilitarianism a workable moral theory? One challenge is that we rarely know all the outcomes of an action. Matthews and Hendricks (2019) note that making accurate forecasts about who will benefit or suffer is often impossible. The trolley problem illustrates this: diverting a train to save five people at the cost of one seems right by utilitarian logic, but many feel uncomfortable deciding who lives or dies (McCombs School of Business, 2018).

Historical examples bring the theory’s limits into sharp relief. Some leaders have inflicted great suffering, claiming they acted for the greater good. My own family history is tied to Uganda’s civil conflict in the 1970s, when my father joined a guerrilla war against a democratically elected government. Tens of thousands died, yet that struggle eventually led to decades of relative peace. I struggle to decide whether those sacrifices were justified. Utilitarianism offers a framework to see why people accept harsh means for long‑term ends, but it also shows the danger of assuming we can predict outcomes correctly (Brandt, 1984).

Legendary theorists themselves faced criticism. Bentham’s focus on mere pleasure ignored deeper values such as justice or individual dignity. Mill tried to fix this by distinguishing higher pleasures of the mind from lower bodily pleasures, but defining those categories remains subjective and controversial (Dimmock & Fisher, 2017). Rule utilitarians, such as R. B. Brandt, defended rights but risked collapsing into deontology by protecting rights even when a one‑time breach would bring greater net happiness (Brandt, 1984). Thus, each version of utilitarianism has blind spots.

Even if I embraced utilitarianism, putting it into practice seems daunting. First, how do I add up pleasure and pain in real time? Bentham’s calculus asks us to consider intensity, duration, certainty, and other factors for each outcome (Matthews & Hendricks, 2019). In everyday life, this is impractical. I would feel more like a calculating robot than a human guided by empathy and moral intuition.

For instance, imagine I try to apply utilitarian thinking in my relationship as a boyfriend living with my girlfriend. I might rate our happiness in numerical terms: career advancement for me might bring three units of pleasure if it strains our time together, which could cost us four units of shared happiness. Yet our love and trust are hard to quantify. In aiming to maximize our combined welfare, I might decide to delay my career moves or limit her social life. Such decisions risk feeling cold and transactional. The effort to track and compare sources of joy would distract me from enjoying our moments together and could even harm the bond I wish to protect.

Second, utilitarianism sometimes demands that individuals sacrifice their own interests for greater benefit. In small families or tight‑knit communities, this can mean taking on undue burdens. If my girlfriend falls ill, I might feel compelled to skip work, care for her, and lose income. A strict utilitarian view might say that if I earn more by working and hire a caregiver, overall utility rises. This clashes with my sense of duty and personal love, suggesting that utilitarianism undervalues special obligations we feel toward those closest to us (McCombs School of Business, 2018).

Act utilitarianism can violate individual rights, and rule utilitarianism can become as rigid as any rule‑based ethic it rejects. Predicting consequences is often beyond our grasp, and quantifying pleasure feels alien to human relationships. In my own life, I worry that applying utilitarianism would turn me into a calculator, undermine personal bonds, and even conflict with special duties to loved ones. While utilitarian ideas can inform how we balance interests, I conclude it is not a complete moral theory on its own.

References

Brandt, R. B. (1984). Utilitarianism and moral rights. Canadian Journal of Philosophy, 14(1), 1–19.

Dimmock, M., & Fisher, A. (2017). Utilitarianism. In Ethics for A‑Level (1st ed., pp. 11–29). Open Book Publishers.

Matthews, G., & Hendricks, C. (2019). Introduction to philosophy: Ethics. Rebus Community. https://open.umn.edu/opentextbooks/textbooks/introduction-to-philosophy-ethics

McCombs School of Business. (2018, December 18). Utilitarianism | Ethics defined [Video]. YouTube. https://youtu.be/-FrZl22_79Q?si=7rYx7BAHWUCNmgcu