Matthew Peters

There's something irresistible about a good conspiracy.

 

Secret meetings in shadowy chambers. Ancient symbols hidden in plain sight. Powerful people pulling the strings behind governments, religions, even history itself. As a novelist, I get it. Conspiracies make for gripping plots, high stakes, and that delicious sense of "what if" that keeps readers turning the page deep into the night.

 

 

But what happens when those same conspiracies bleed off the page?

 

That's the question I wrestled with while writing The Ignoble Lie, a political-religious thriller where the line between fiction and reality gets dangerously thin.

 

In fiction, conspiracies let us feel like insiders. Like we're in on the secret. Like we're one step ahead of the truth. They offer tidy explanations for messy problems: wars, assassinations, systemic inequality. They give us a villain to point at and a mystery to solve. Whether it's The Da Vinci Code, Three Days of the Condor, National Treasure, or The X-Files, the allure is the same: behind every curtain, there's someone hiding the real story.

 

And let's be honest—sometimes, there is.

 

History is filled with coverups, coups, and suppressed truths. That's why the idea of a hidden gospel, a Vatican power struggle, or a U.S. President potentially manipulated by religious ideologues (all of which appear in The Ignoble Lie) doesn't feel all that far-fetched. The challenge as a writer isn't imagining the conspiracy, it's keeping it plausible enough that it just might be true.

But the danger comes when we stop distinguishing fiction from fact.

 

In a world where misinformation spreads faster than truth, conspiracy theories can leap from thrillers into real-life violence. We've seen it in the rise of QAnon, in vaccine denialism, in attacks on journalists and politicians. What starts as a "what if?" quickly becomes "what must be true!" And suddenly, the shadows are running the show.

 

Conspiracy thinking often thrives in times of uncertainty. It offers clarity where there is confusion, purpose where there is chaos. But it also erodes trust, especially in institutions, science, and even democracy itself.

 

 

That's why I take the responsibility of writing conspiracy fiction seriously.

 

The Ignoble Lie is, at its core, a novel about the power of belief: how it can uplift or destroy, liberate or imprison. It uses conspiracy as a lens to ask hard questions: Who controls history? What happens when faith is politicized? Can the truth survive in a world built on lies?

 

But I'm not asking readers to believe in any of the views put forth in the book—unless, of course, they resonate them. I'm asking them to think critically about the forces shaping their worldview. To stay curious. To interrogate the stories they've inherited.

 

Because fiction isn't meant to be a blueprint, but a mirror.

 

So yes, conspiracies make great fiction. But they're only great when they remind us to think harder, dig deeper, and remain vigilant. Not just about what's hidden, but about who's telling the story.

 

Just remember: the truth is rarely tidy. And the real danger is not the lie itself, but the need to believe it.

 

Best,

Matthew

Some readers have asked why I've chosen the title The Ignoble Lie for my recently released thriller. Answering that question involves a look at the work of one of the world's greatest minds.

 

In his foundational work The Republic, the ancient Greek philosopher Plato introduced a concept that has intrigued, troubled, and inspired political thinkers for over two thousand years: the "noble lie." This was not a lie told in malice or manipulation, but a myth—intentionally crafted and disseminated by leaders to maintain social harmony and civic order.

 

 

Plato's "noble lie" was meant to convince citizens that their place in society was ordained by something greater than themselves. In his fictional city-state, rulers would tell the people that they were born from the Earth and infused with different kinds of metal in their souls—gold for leaders, silver for auxiliaries, and bronze or iron for workers. Though biologically false, this myth served a philosophical purpose: it offered a cohesive identity, a sense of belonging, and a rationale for social stratification. The lie was "noble" because it aimed to promote unity and the common good.

 

But what happens when a lie—no matter how well-intentioned—outlives its usefulness? What if the story we tell ourselves to keep order becomes a tool of oppression, or worse, a cover for deeper corruption?

 

That question lies at the heart of my novel, The Ignoble Lie.

 

In The Ignoble Lie, ex-Jesuit Scott Larson and adventuress Zady Jones uncover a secret buried deep beneath layers of myth, religious tradition, and political power. A terrorist attack on the Great Pyramid in Egypt sets off a global chain reaction that shakes Washington, D.C., where a controversial U.S. president has declared the nation a Judeo-Christian state.

 

As Larson and Jones try to stop more terrorist attacks, they begin to suspect that one of the most sacred objects in religious lore—the Ark of the Covenant—may not be what it seems. Their investigation leads them to question long-accepted historical "truths" and to confront the terrifying possibility that the most powerful institutions in the world are built on a lie. Not a noble one, but an ignoble one.

 

Plato believed that myths could bind people together. But in a modern world of surveillance, spin, and statecraft, can we still tell the difference between a guiding story and a dangerous fabrication? The Ignoble Lie plays with this tension, using the framework of a fast-paced thriller to explore philosophical questions about faith, history, and the narratives we cling to in order to make sense of the world.

 

Ultimately, The Ignoble Lie is not just a play on Plato's idea; it's a challenge to it. In an age when ancient myths and modern ideologies clash with deadly consequences, the novel asks: who gets to decide what the truth is? And what happens when the lie we've built our civilization upon begins to crumble?

 

 

I'd love to hear your thoughts.

 

Best,

Matthew