Jung Typology Test

Thirty-two questions, four either/or scales, about twelve minutes. Answer for what you actually do, not the version you would prefer, and at the end you get your type named in Jung’s own vocabulary, the four-letter code that goes with it, and how strongly each of the four scales came out.

First solo break at a new job. Three people you barely know are in the kitchen. What do you do? Head straight for the loudest end of the counter. Hovering by the kettle until somebody says hello suits me fine. I answer if I'm spoken to; otherwise the mug and the window are enough. I take the break outside, phone in hand, and see nobody at all.

A new appliance is out of the box and the manual is sitting right next to it. What happens next? The manual comes out first and stays open on the counter. I read the setup page and follow it. The rest can wait. Buttons first, manual only if something refuses to work. Within a minute of unboxing it I've pressed everything and worked out the logic.

A colleague's work has real errors in it and you're the one reviewing it. How do you handle that? I list the errors in order, because a softened version gets read as approval. First the two things that are genuinely wrong, then whatever encouragement fits. The parts that work get named out loud before anything else is raised. Over coffee, away from the review thread, the awkward part finally gets said gently.

The trip is booked and paid for. Then better information turns up. What now? It takes a real problem, not a better price, before I'll reopen a booking. If the difference is small, the booking stands. I look at what I missed and let it sit until the weekend. Better information turned up, so the whole itinerary goes back on the table.

A long catch-up call with an old friend has just ended. How does it leave you? Hang up buzzing and ring the next person on the list. Whether it ran two hours or twenty minutes, I come off it in a better mood. I'm glad we spoke — and glad the flat is quiet again. I end up lying down for half an hour before I'm any use to anyone.

You've just arrived in a city you have never been to. What registers first? Counting the stops between the station and the hotel is the first thing I do. I notice the tram lines and the price of bread; that already tells me plenty. I take in the mood of the place first, map still folded in my pocket. Spend the first evening working out what kind of city this wants to be.

The group bill arrives and some people ordered far more than others. How does it get split? I add up what each person actually ordered. The arithmetic is the fair answer. Drinks separately, food split — near enough to right. By the time the card machine arrives I've stopped caring about the difference. An even split keeps the table friendly, and that's worth more than the money.

It's late and a task is sitting half-finished. What happens to it? First it gets finished, then the evening starts — even if that's eleven o'clock. The last section gets tidied up so tomorrow starts clean. On the desk, half-done, it waits until I'm sharp enough to do it properly. I shut the laptop mid-sentence, because the work will still be there in the morning.

A brainstorm is starting and ideas are wanted. How do you contribute? I say the half-formed thing out loud in front of everyone. There's one rough idea I'll throw in early; the rest I build off other people. I come in with two things written down: the problem and one workable route. "Let me think about it," I say, and send the real answer that night.

Somebody stops you in the street and asks for directions. How do you give them? Which side of the road the postbox sits on matters, so I say it. I give the street names in order — plus how many turns it is. I end up describing the shape of the route and the big church they'll pass. Point them in the rough direction and say what it looks like near the end.

Two final candidates, one job. How does the call get made? I score them against the same list; the higher score gets the job. I go with the stronger track record, gut feeling noted and set aside. Pick the one the team will actually enjoy working beside. Hiring someone the room warms to beats hiring the better CV.

An hour before you're due to meet, a friend suggests doing something completely different. Your reaction? Plan made, plan kept — the new idea can be next Thursday. An hour before we're due out, a change is a hard sell. The new suggestion is fine once I've got over the switch. I'm already up for it. The old plan wasn't sacred.

A message lands at five: everyone is coming over tonight. What goes through you? I'm texting two more people before I've finished reading the message. It's the short notice that makes it good, not the number of people. I say yes and think one thing: "until about ten, then." I'd rather have the evening I'd planned than a full flat by nine.

A trip is coming up and the planning has landed on you. How does it get planned? There's a document with times, addresses and confirmation numbers before we leave. I book the two fixed things first: the flights and the first night. "The middle can sort itself out," I say, with the flights booked and nothing between them. I leave everything past the outbound flight to the place itself.

A friend describes a decision you privately think is a mistake. What do you say? I tell them what I actually think — including the part they won't like. I end up naming the one flaw and leaving the decision alone. Back them out loud and raise the doubt once, quietly, later. Whether I'd have done the same isn't the point; they need someone in their corner.

A new project needs milestones. When do the dates get set? I set every date in week one, calendar invitations out the same afternoon. Lock the delivery date first. Setting the last date only when the middle is clear saves a lot of apologising. The dates move as the work moves; a plan that can't bend gets ignored anyway.

A big room, mostly people you don't know, and you're there for the evening. How does it go? Once I've got a drink, I've spoken to half the room. What I want is three or four decent conversations, not one long one. I'll do the introductions, but I settle where I can hear properly. The bigger the room, the more likely I'm on the balcony with one person.

A work problem turns up in a shape you have seen before. What's your first move? It's the method that worked last March that I reach for. I open last time's file first, thinking: "this will need adjusting somewhere." I'd rather try one change to the old approach than run it untouched. I sketch a route nobody has tried before I'll even open the old file.

A hard decision has to be made and the deadline is tomorrow. What settles it? I decide on two things: what the numbers say and what we promised. "This is the call," I write, knowing it will not go down well. I put real effort into how the people it lands on hear it. There's someone this falls hardest on, and that changes the answer.

A decision is made, but it could technically still be changed. Where does it sit in your head? I end up treating it as done and stop looking at the alternatives. Close the tab, and reopen it only if somebody else raises it. Whether it's still open is worth knowing, even if I don't use it. Nothing is final until it's paid for — the second option stays warm.

A genuinely stressful day is over. What do you do with it? If nobody picks up, the day sits badly until somebody does. I mention it over dinner and it's mostly out of my system by the washing-up. The spoken version comes out wrong the first time, so I wait a day. It takes a long walk and a night's sleep before I can say what happened.

A week after a long conversation, what is still with you? What I keep is the exact figure and who said it. I remember the actual words, but the tone fades within a day. The longer it has been, the more it's the drift of the thing I keep. When I replay it later, it's what they were really asking that stays.

Two colleagues are stuck in a disagreement and you're in the middle of it. What are you doing? I go to the record first, then say it: "this is what was agreed." I'd rather have the facts straight than the feelings soothed first. I let both of them finish before anyone gets told who is right. It's the atmosphere between them that I'm actually trying to repair.

There's a whole free day on next week's calendar. What happens to it? "Thursday's free," I notice, and it isn't free by lunchtime. I pencil something in for the shape of it. There's one empty afternoon I protect from anything that isn't urgent. Empty days earn their keep: the unplanned walk, the phone call I'd forgotten.

Nothing is planned for the weekend yet. What would make it a good one? Saturday gets filled in by Wednesday and Sunday takes whoever is left. At somebody's kitchen table on Saturday night, the weekend has done its job. One thing on, one day clear, because two full days leaves me flat. First a long empty morning, then whatever I feel like at four.

Somebody in a meeting says "but what if we did the opposite?" How do you take it? I let it run for a minute and then ask what we're doing on Monday. It's interesting but not booked, so I park it and go back to the agenda. It takes one good "what if" before the real problem shows itself. If somebody opens that door, I'm through it and three steps down the corridor.

Somebody asks you to make an exception to a rule you're responsible for. What decides it? I'll grant it, but only if the reason holds for the next person who asks. The better the argument, the further I'll bend; sympathy alone won't do it. When it clearly matters to them, I'll find a way to say yes. What decides it is what this costs the person in front of me.

A decision from last week comes back into your head. Nothing new has happened since. What do you do with it? I'd rather live with a decided thing than chew it over again. I give it a minute and let it go before it turns into an evening. It's the second look that tells me whether I actually believed it. It comes back and I take it seriously: "was that right, though?"

You walk over to a group of strangers already deep in conversation. What happens? Thirty seconds after walking over, I've said something and it has landed. An open circle is an invitation, and I take it. I stand at the edge and listen in. If they turn to me, fine. Not without an introduction — somebody else's, preferably.

A plan lands on your desk and you have to say whether it's sound. What do you look at? Down in the detail — the costs, the dates — is where I find out if it holds. I check the numbers first, because a good story sits happily on a bad budget. First: does this go anywhere in two years? Then the spreadsheet. The direction gets judged before a single line of the budget is opened.

What actually changes your mind in an argument? The evidence either holds or it doesn't, so that's what I go looking for. It takes one solid example before I'll move off my position. If the person making the case has lived it, I listen differently. Somebody tells me what it cost them and I've changed my mind by the end of it.

Two good options, and the deadline is closing in. What do you do? The closer the deadline, the faster I'll pick one and stop looking. Once they're genuinely close, I take either one and move. What tempts me is one more day with both of them open. I'll decide at the last possible hour, but not one minute before it.

Your results are no accident

The classic 16-type personality test rooted in Jung's typology has been rebuilt from the ground up: a new CoreTypes methodology, and a far higher level of accuracy. These might be the most useful ten minutes you'll ever spend on yourself: you walk away with the key to your decisions, your relationships and your results — and it's yours for good.

Take the free test

Frequently asked questions

Did Carl Jung actually create a personality test?

No. What he published in 1921 was an account of attitude-types and functions — the raw material behind the four scales you have just answered — and nothing resembling a questionnaire with a score attached. The extra dichotomy, the letter codes and the whole business of turning answers into a type arrived much later, and they came from Katharine Briggs and Isabel Myers. The vocabulary is his. The format is not.

Is the Jung typology test the same as the official MBTI?

No, and there is no version of this test that anybody could call the official one. What you have taken was written on its own, out of the same freely used Jungian terms that dozens of other tests draw on, and it carries no licence, endorsement or connection to any registered product with a name like it. The four letters look familiar because the letters are common property, not because two tests are one test.

What is the difference between the Jung typology test and the Myers-Briggs test?

Search treats the two names as interchangeable, but the history keeps them apart. Jung's part arrived in 1921: attitudes and functions, described but never scored. The branded, letter-coded instrument was assembled a good deal afterwards, and it parts company with him at one identifiable point. It gives the Rational and Irrational opposition a scale of its own and scores it separately, which Jung never did.

Is the Jung typology test scientifically accurate?

Jung's typology is a genuine and historically weighty way of talking about people, not something conjured out of nothing. What has never been established, for his version or for the letter-coded one, is that it measures anything precisely; the studies are not there. His own way of working was to interpret one person at a time; counting answers on a form was no part of it. Take a result from it as a prompt for thinking about yourself, not as a reading off a gauge.

Can you get a different type if you retake the test?

Yes, and with this kind of test it happens to plenty of people: retakes very often shift at least one letter. The one to watch is whichever scale finished nearest the halfway mark, because a near-level dichotomy is the least settled thing in the result, and it is where a change of mood or a couple of questions read differently will show up first. That is about how steady the measurement is, and not about how you compare with anybody else.

Methodology

The approach comes from Carl Jung's attitude-types and functions, and from the sixteen-way code system others assembled on that base afterwards. It is not Jung's own test, and not any trademarked product borrowing his name.

Four dichotomies are measured, each settled on its own: Energy, Perception, Decision and Closure — type theory in its most familiar form. Eight questions feed each, and the four winning poles combine into one of sixteen results. Where a dichotomy lands exactly level, the pole that claims less takes it — Introversion, Sensing, Thinking, Irrational — since a draw has not shown the stronger claim. The first three dichotomies are Jung's material, and so are the words Rational and Irrational — his own names for the two pairs of his functions. What is not his is the fourth scale: measuring that opposition on its own, forced against the other three, was added much later. Two of the four name your result the way Jung named types, attitude plus leading function, and each of those eight names covers two of the sixteen codes, which is what the code separates.

Jung never wrote or published this questionnaire, nor any test that scores answers. The extra dichotomy, the grid of sixteen and the letters themselves are Katharine Briggs' and Isabel Myers' work, from the 1940s on. He stated plainly that nobody is a pure type: a result here says which side of four scales is in front, never that one side is the whole of you. His own introversion and extraversion distinction is the part that travelled furthest.

Limits. This is a descriptive system with a thin evidence base. Neither Jung's original nor the letter-coded version grown from it measures anything with the precision a validated instrument needs, so the honest use of a result is as something to think about yourself with. Each dichotomy is a continuum sliced in two, so a percentage near the halfway mark marks the shakiest letter in your result — the one likeliest to land differently on a second run. A type portrait written broadly enough rings true to almost anybody. None of this is evidence about which job suits you, who to be with, anything clinical, or what you will do next week. Jung read people one at a time; counting answers on a form is a different instrument.

References

Jung, C. G. (1921/1971). Psychological Types (H. G. Baynes, Trans., rev. R. F. C. Hull). Princeton University Press / Collected Works, Vol. 6.
McCrae, R. R., & Costa, P. T., Jr. (1989). Reinterpreting the Myers-Briggs Type Indicator From the Perspective of the Five-Factor Model of Personality. Journal of Personality, 57(1), 17–40. doi:10.1111/j.1467-6494.1989.tb00759.x
Carroll, R. T. Myers-Briggs Type Indicator (MBTI). The Skeptic's Dictionary.

Author: Lex Tarrel, Personality Typologist Reviewed by: Igor Lyadskiy, PhD