Signs a man is self-centered and has very little empathy, according to psychology

When I first started writing about interpersonal dynamics, I assumed most “self-centered” behavior was obvious — big ego, constant bragging, little regard for other people’s feelings.

Over time, though, I’ve watched subtler patterns do far more damage than the predictable show-offs. Some men manage to appear charming, supportive, even vulnerable, yet leave you feeling strangely drained after every interaction.

The common denominator?

A chronic shortage of empathy masked by just enough social skill to keep you second-guessing. Once you recognize the quieter tells, you can trust what your nervous system has probably been whispering all along: this person’s focus rarely leaves the mirror.

A first sign surfaces in conversation pacing. A genuinely empathetic person will pause, invite your perspective, and remember details you mentioned last week. The self-centered man does something different—he listens only for openings to pivot back to himself. He might ask a question, but before you finish, he’s finishing your sentence or supplying an anecdote that reroutes attention. It feels less like dialogue and more like a relay race where he’s determined to carry the baton on every lap.

Psychologists sometimes describe this as “conversational narcissism,” a term coined by sociologist Charles Derber to capture the unconscious habit of hijacking airtime. The diagnostic moment isn’t that he talks a lot; it’s that your contributions vanish the moment they leave your mouth.

A second indicator appears when plans collide with his convenience. Empathy shows up in small logistical sacrifices: leaving a bit early so you’re not waiting outside alone, switching restaurants because the first choice triggers your allergies.

The self-centered man consistently asks you to accommodate him—his schedule, his dietary quirks, his preferred neighborhood—while framing your adjustments as “no big deal.” If you ever ask for a comparable shift, he points out why that’s complicated right now. The imbalance isn’t dramatic; it’s cumulative.

Over months, you realize you’ve spent countless hours bending around him while he’s rarely stretched an inch.

Watch how he handles feedback and you’ll spot a third sign.

Even the most diplomatic suggestion—“Could we talk about how you spoke to me in the meeting?”—is met with defensiveness, minimization, or a lecture on why your perception is flawed.

A man low on empathy views critique as an attack on identity, not an opportunity for repair. Instead of curiosity, he offers counter-charges: you’re sensitive, misinformed, overreacting. This reaction lines up with the psychological concept of fragile high self-regard, where confidence is skin-deep and easily punctured, prompting a reflexive backlash rather than introspection.

The fourth signal arrives in his humor. Jokes, especially among friends, can be gentle roasts, but notice whose blemishes he spotlights and whose remain sacred. The empathy-light man frequently gets laughs by exposing others’ insecurities—your mispronounced word, a coworker’s weight gain, the bartender’s accent—while bristling if anyone teases him with equal force. It’s a one-way street: amusement when someone else blushes, moral outrage when the spotlight flips. Researchers studying relational aggression note that this “teasing asymmetry” is an efficient way to elevate status without overt cruelty, but it reliably erodes trust in those on the receiving end.

A fifth cue emerges around other people’s successes and hardships. When a friend lands a promotion, does he express sincere excitement or quickly compare salaries? When someone shares bad news, does he offer presence or pivot to a story about the time he had it worse? People with healthy empathy can temporarily bracket their own narrative to make emotional room for someone else’s. The self-centered man reflexively recenters himself, as if any story that isn’t about him feels like lost oxygen. Over time, friends grow reluctant to share victories or vulnerabilities, sensing they’ll be overshadowed or repurposed.

The sixth marker is his relationship with apologies. Genuine remorse involves acknowledging impact, not just intent: “I see how my comment embarrassed you, I’m sorry.” The empathy-deficient version sounds different: “I’m sorry you feel that way.” It externalizes responsibility, framing your hurt as a puzzling individual reaction rather than a natural consequence of his action. Applied psychologist Harriet Lerner calls this “the faux-pology,” a linguistic sleight of hand that satisfies social protocol while dodging accountability. If you press for more, he may claim he’s being unfairly villainized, effectively making his discomfort the new issue.

Seventh, examine how he treats service workers, strangers, or anyone outside his social circle. Early in my career I interviewed hiring managers who said they’d watch candidates interact with reception staff before making an offer. A pattern emerged: men low on empathy were polite to power but dismissive to those they considered “background.” The behavior isn’t always overt rudeness; sometimes it’s invisibility—eyes glued to the phone while a barista hands over coffee, no acknowledgment of the rideshare driver. Because there’s little social leverage to gain, they conserve politeness for those who might help them later.

The eighth and perhaps most telling sign shows up in crisis. Empathetic partners become steadier when someone they care about is hurting; the self-centered man often becomes impatient or absent. He might send a token text—“Tough break, hope it works out”—but avoids sustained involvement if it inconveniences him. Empathy is energy-intensive; feeling another’s pain requires emotional bandwidth he’s unwilling to spend.

Instead, he may intellectualize your situation or suggest quick fixes, eager to wrap it up so normal programming can resume. In the worst cases, he’ll subtly reposition himself as the one needing support (“It stresses me out when you’re upset”), flipping the dynamic so you’re comforting him.

After sketching these patterns, it’s worth noting that most of us exhibit a few at times.

Stress, burnout, and survival mode—they can all shrink our empathic range temporarily. The difference with a persistently self-centered man is frequency, rigidity, and lack of genuine repair. When confronted, he might perform caring gestures briefly, but they fade once scrutiny lifts, revealing that the underlying compass still points inward.

What can you do if you recognize someone you’re dating, working with, or related to in this description?

First, trust your fatigue. Chronic one-sidedness is exhausting; if interactions repeatedly leave you depleted or doubting yourself, that data matters.

Second, test for reciprocity with low-stakes requests: ask him to accommodate your preference this time or hold space for your story without interruption. His response will reveal whether empathy exists beneath habit or whether self-focus is default.

If the latter, set boundaries early and explicitly. Phrase them around your needs rather than diagnosing his shortcomings: “I’m looking for conversations where both of us feel heard,” or “I need follow-through on plans, otherwise I’ll make separate arrangements.”

People low in empathy rarely change because you label them; they adjust only when consequences impact their comfort.

Lastly, remember that recognizing these signs isn’t about casting someone as irredeemable. It’s about accurately assessing relational risk. Empathy can grow, but only when the person sees its absence as a problem.

Until then, your primary responsibility is protecting your own emotional bandwidth. Being generous is worthwhile, but generosity without boundaries turns into unpaid caretaking of someone else’s ego. Know the difference, and you’ll navigate self-centered landscapes without losing sight of yourself—the one perspective you are wholly responsible for honoring.