Why We Don't Like People Being Motivated by Money
It's a Naive Attempt to Feel Safe
I was watching a tutorial on using AI agents for marketing. The host was praising a tool called Gumloop—really selling it—when they suddenly added, “I’m not affiliated with Gumloop.”
That line jumped out.
Why do we feel the need to say that?
And why does it matter so much to the audience?
That moment got me thinking—not just about disclaimers, but about our deeper discomfort with financially motivated praise. There’s a long history behind why we side-eye endorsements, even when they’re honest. And it’s not just about money. It’s about trust, manipulation, and the ways we try—sometimes clumsily—to protect ourselves from being misled.
Evolutionary and Psychological Roots
Our instinctive suspicion of financial motives isn’t new—it’s ancient.
In small tribal groups, survival hinged on cooperation. Sharing food and looking out for each other wasn’t just nice—it was necessary.
A hunter who shared meat with the group out of loyalty was a safer bet than one hoarding it for leverage.
That instinct—to flag self-interest as risky—got wired in deep. And it hasn’t left us.
Even now, we look for signals of real care versus opportunism.
That’s why financial motives feel icky. They spark a question we don’t like asking: are they doing this for me—or for themselves?
We also crave certainty.
We want to trust that when someone recommends something, they actually believe it. That their love for the product isn’t just rented for a paycheck.
It’s why a friend who says “this phone case saved my screen” feels more real than an influencer saying the same thing with #ad in the caption.
It’s also why we tend to judge others for what we excuse in ourselves.
We know our own salary doesn’t make us sellouts. But when someone else gets paid to promote something, we squint a little harder.
We’re stuck chasing purity in motives that rarely exist in real life.
Historical Context
This isn't just a psychological quirk. It’s also historical conditioning.
Back in the 1800s, patent medicine sellers made wild claims about miracle tonics—with no science behind them and plenty of alcohol or opium inside.
Testimonials were fake. Doctors were actors. And people got burned.
That era made the public wary. And that wariness grew.
In the early 1900s, radio hosts would slip ads into their broadcasts like casual mentions, making it hard to tell where entertainment stopped and sales began.
Eventually, the government stepped in.
By the 1970s, regulators like the FTC required people to disclose if they were getting paid to endorse something.
That’s when phrases like “sponsored content” and “I’m not affiliated” started popping up.
They were meant to restore trust—but mostly put a Band-Aid on a much deeper problem.
And people noticed.
A 2019 study from the University of Amsterdam found that while disclaimers helped a little, they didn’t erase skepticism.
Especially for people who knew how the game worked—free products, affiliate links, behind-the-scenes deals.
Once trust is broken, disclaimers don’t fix it.
Do Disclaimers Work?
Do phrases like “I’m not affiliated” really change how we feel?
Sometimes. A 2020 Pew survey found over half of Americans trust sponsored content more if the financial connection is disclosed upfront.
But those disclosures have lost their edge.
#Ad and “paid partnership” tags are so common now, they barely register.
And the line between honest enthusiasm and soft promotion? Blurry at best.
Even when a YouTuber genuinely loves a product, that love might have started with a freebie. Or a pitch from a brand. Or a nudge from the algorithm.
The feelings are real—but so is the influence.
This is the “messenger problem.” We don’t trust what’s being said because we’re not sure we trust who’s saying it.
But advertisers don’t care. They know something else works better than trust: repetition.
A 2023 Nielsen report found that consistent exposure increases likelihood to buy by 20%—even when people don’t trust the source.
Financial motivation doesn’t have to win hearts. It just has to get seen enough.
Which means that when we obsess over whether someone’s getting paid, we’re often looking in the wrong place.
The real issue isn’t money. It’s manipulation.
The Real Issue Isn’t Money
We give money way too much credit for being the bad guy.
Yes, payment creates incentive. But so do social pressure, status, peer approval, and unconscious bias.
A blogger might promote a product just because everyone else in their circle is. No money exchanged—but the influence is real.
Blaming money oversimplifies things. And it distracts us.
Instead of asking, “Are they paid?” we should be asking, “Does this work? Do they actually use it? Is there proof?”
That’s where real trust starts—not with the messenger, but with the message.
The Takeaway
Our discomfort with financially motivated endorsements is an old reflex.
It kept our ancestors alive. It helped us survive ad-driven scams. And it’s why we instinctively side-eye anything with a disclaimer.
But those disclaimers don’t protect us from what really matters.
Because money isn’t the problem—manipulation is.
If we want to make better choices, we need to stop fixating on intent and start focusing on outcomes.
Is it a good product?
Is the recommendation backed by something real?
That’s what we should be asking.
Next time you hear “I’m not affiliated,” don’t just nod.
Ask why they said it—and what’s really influencing your decision.