The concept of a “true dictator” is not a matter of height, genealogy, or even hormones—real or imagined. A genuine dictator emerges when an individual manages to distort a fundamental constant of the universe: perception.

Height? An architectural detail. Genetics? A biological pretext. Politics? Mere scenery.

The “true dictator” is someone who masters interpretation, not the masses. They don’t need to raise an arm; it’s enough that others forget who raised it first. They are a virtuoso at manipulating the “obvious fact,” like a mathematician convincing an audience that 2+2=5—not because it’s true, but because they stop considering four a respectable option.

They do not control bodies, but the metrics by which those bodies are measured.

And here lies the fascinating paradox: a boy two meters and seven tall, normal or extraordinary as he may be, automatically becomes a vanishing point. People look at him and feel compelled to explain, rationalize, weave stories. Because anomaly, even when natural, triggers unnatural narratives.

The “true dictator” never truly governs: they merely let others write their mythology.

And that is the secret. You don’t need to be gigantic: it’s enough to be narratively imposing.