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Whatsapp Christa McAuliffe's friend Ginny Timmons with a photo of the Challenger astronaut.

Claims that the Moon landing was faked or that lizard people are taking over the world might seem harmless and even humorous, but philosopher Patrick Stokes argues that every conspiracy theory comes with a moral cost.

Earlier this year, the world marked the 30th anniversary of the Challenger space shuttle disaster and the loss of all seven crew. With the public captivated by the story of Christa McAuliffe, the first teacher in space, some 17 per cent of the entire American population watched in horror as Challenger exploded live on television.

In an important sense every conspiracy theory comes at some moral cost. To offer a conspiracy theory is to make an accusation.

Except it didn't really happen. The tragedy was faked. At least six of the astronauts are alive and well and hiding in plain sight. Why, they're even still using their real names, or variations thereof. Sharon Christa McAuliffe is now Sharon A. McAuliffe, an adjunct professor of law at Syracuse University. The public has been duped by a massive conspiracy for three decades, one finally exposed thanks to intrepid amateur sleuths scouring the internet for clues.

These claims are, needless to say, utter hogwash; the evidence offered is not merely flimsy, but laughable. (At least two of the people alleged to be Challenger survivors are actually siblings of Challenger crewmembers). And what sort of conspirators would fake their own deaths in front of millions of viewers but then keep their real names?

Even so, it's yet another illustration of the pervasiveness of conspiracy theory as a social practice—and the widespread desire to believe in them. If you think this all sounds like some fringe belief that nobody could buy into, consider this: for this theory to hold, NASA would have had to somehow keep a conspiracy involving thousands of people secret for three decades. Yet upwards of 6 per cent of Americans believe that NASA pulled off the far greater feat of faking the moon landings.

Read more: What are the odds of a moon landing conspiracy?

Conspiracy theories weren't invented by the internet. They go back at least as far as the elite reaction to the French Revolution, with a grand Illuminati-Masonic conspiracy theory taking hold on both sides of the Atlantic before the start of the 19th century. Anti-Semitic conspiracy theories had tragic consequences during the last century, while today the Obama administration has had to contend with everything from demands for the president's birth certificate to state governments fuelling rumours of impending martial law. The consequences of conspiracy theories are, as they have always been, concrete and significant.

Most of us use the term 'conspiracy theory' to refer to beliefs we consider outlandish, paranoid, and almost certainly false. Yet strictly speaking this is unfair: on the simplest definition, a conspiracy theory is simply any explanation of observed events that posits two or more actors working in secret. Philosophers who have considered conspiracy theories as a class of explanation insist that there's nothing intrinsically irrational about conspiracy theory so defined. In fact, if we didn't accept the idea of a group of actors plotting in secret, we'd be unable to explain a host of historical events, from the assassination of Julius Caesar to Watergate. Conspiracies happen.

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Whatsapp John F Kennedy in Dallas, minutes before he was assassinated.

But that doesn't mean that conspiracy theory as a style, practice, and tradition is just as valid as any other form of explanation. Such theories are notoriously impossible to falsify: how do you prove hidden secret forces are not directing world events? They also have a terrible track record of success. Fifty years on from Dallas, no non-Oswald theory on who killed JFK has emerged triumphant against its competition. The NSA's electronic surveillance program, by contrast, was exposed by a single whistleblower working with journalists.

It's easy to ask 'what's the harm?' with conspiracy theories. The answer depends on which conspiracy theory you're talking about. The beliefs that Paul McCartney died in 1966 and was secretly replaced by a lookalike, or that Elvis faked his own death, have probably done relatively little harm overall. The belief that AIDS is not a deadly disease but a western plot to control Africans and sell them expensive drugs has led to as many as 365,000 preventable deaths.

Somewhere in the middle are those conspiracy theories that may appear like harmless speculation but nonetheless translate into real harms to real people. Parents who lost children in the Sandy Hook Massacre were harassed and taunted by conspiracy theorists who accused them of being actors, insisting their dead children had never existed.

Read more: The psychology of conspiracy theories

In an important sense every conspiracy theory comes at some moral cost. To offer a conspiracy theory is to make an accusation. The accusation may be amorphous ('shadowy forces run the country!') or highly specific ('Prince Philip ordered MI6 to kill Princess Diana!') but by necessity ultimately there is always another human being at the end of it. And given the defensive logic of conspiracy theories, in which anyone who denies the conspiracy must themselves be a conspirator, buying into such a theory involves making more and more such accusations just to keep the theory alive.

That is not a morally neutral thing to do, however innocent spinning tales of hidden astronauts might seem. The X-Files urged us to 'trust no one.' But trust is in fact indispensable, from the level of everyday interactions with strangers and loved ones to the functioning of economic and political institutions. That foundational trust is deeply corroded by the all-consuming suspicion that drives conspiracy theorising.

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Whatsapp A 'crashed flying saucer' outside a motel in Nevada, near Area 51.

The growth in complexity and size of our informational environment also means that we increasingly must rely on experts and knowledge communities over whom we have no control and no real understanding. Yet as citizens in advanced democracies we also rightly need to maintain a healthy suspicion of power. Simultaneously maintaining trust and vigilance is by no means an easy needle to thread.

Perhaps the main challenge is to remember that conspiracy theories—if they're intended to have any purchase at all—are ultimately about real people, real events, real tragedies. Creating them is therefore an activity that takes place within the moral sphere, and is subject to ethical standards.

Seen in that light, it's not OK to accuse someone of fraud or worse simply because their very existence contradicts your favourite conspiracy narrative. The truth may well be out there, but the need for ethical care lies much closer to home.

Listen to the full program The Minefield considers what conspiracy theories say about the health of modern democracy.

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