There’s a peculiar kind of dread in watching a leader who cannot, or will not, admit defeat. It’s not just the stubbornness—it’s the way that refusal ripples outward, dragging entire nations into the abyss. History is littered with such figures, men who cling to power like gamblers chasing a lost bet, doubling down until the table is bare. What’s troubling is how familiar this feels today, as Russia’s war in Ukraine grinds on, propelled by a leader who seems caught in a trap of his own making.
Vladimir Putin’s invasion of Ukraine, now stretching into its third year, is a case study in this grim psychology. The numbers are staggering: over a million Russian casualties, a figure that dwarfs the territorial gains eked out in Ukraine’s east. Each push forward costs more lives for less ground, a diminishing return that would signal to any rational observer that the war is unsustainable. Yet Putin presses on, unmoved by the mounting losses or the failure to achieve his grand objectives. Why? Because for leaders like him, the personal cost of admitting failure outweighs the collective devastation of continuing.
This isn’t a new story. You get the picture from history—Adolf Hitler in the waning days of World War II, sending children to die in Berlin’s streets rather than face the inevitability of defeat. Like Hitler, Putin seems driven by a calculus that prioritizes his own survival over his people’s. It’s tempting to think this is mere megalomania, but it’s more complicated than that. For Putin, the war has become a perverse lifeline. It keeps Russia’s economy humming on a war footing, with military jobs propping up a fragile financial system. Ending the conflict would mean dismantling this machine, risking economic collapse and public unrest. He’s betting that kicking the can down the road, however disastrous in the long term, buys him time to avoid facing the music today.
What’s particularly chilling is how this mindset distorts reality. Putin’s public posturing—occasional murmurs of negotiation, followed by airstrikes on Ukrainian hospitals and apartment blocks—suggests not just cruelty but a deliberate rejection of resolution. These aren’t the actions of a leader seeking a way out; they’re the moves of someone who believes he can’t afford to stop. Bombing civilians doesn’t win wars; it hardens resolve, prolongs fighting, and alienates potential mediators. But for Putin, it’s less about victory than about maintaining the illusion of control. A ceasefire might expose the war’s futility, and with it, his own.
There’s another layer to this trap, one that’s less discussed but no less haunting: the Russian soldiers themselves. Stories of deception and abuse within the Russian military are legion—recruits promised safe postings only to be thrown onto the front lines, officers extorting their own men, dissenters silenced with threats of death. If the war ends, these soldiers return home, battle-hardened and embittered, to a country whose economy is buckling under sanctions and war spending. For Putin, the prospect of thousands of angry, armed veterans is a nightmare. Better to keep them fighting, he might reason, than to face their wrath at home. It’s a cruel logic, but it’s one that leaders like him have followed before, sacrificing their people to delay their own reckoning.
Frankly, the West’s response to this dynamic has been maddeningly shortsighted. There’s a persistent hope that Putin will tire of the war, that sanctions or battlefield setbacks will force his hand. But history suggests otherwise. Leaders who start wars like this don’t stop because it’s logical; they stop when they’re forced to, when their power is broken or their regime collapses. Hitler fought until Berlin was in rubble. Putin may well do the same, doubling down until Russia’s resources—or its patience—run dry.
This should be a wake-up call. The war in Ukraine won’t end with a negotiated settlement while Putin remains in power. His psychology, rooted in a refusal to lose face, makes that impossible. The best hope—grim as it sounds—is for his removal, whether through internal upheaval or some other means. Whoever replaces him may not be a saint, but they won’t carry the same baggage, the same need to perpetuate a war to justify their existence. Until then, Russia remains trapped, and the consequences—for Ukraine, for Russia, and for the world—are as terrifying as they are predictable.
