Governance for the next generation: Beyond electoral legitimacy

The illusion of democratic control

“Democracy is the worst form of government—except for all the others that have been tried.”

Churchill’s famous line still echoes reassuringly across the West. It’s repeated like a secular prayer—imperfect as democracy may be, at least it’s better than the alternatives. But today, in a world of rising inequality and complex crises, it can feel less like wisdom and more like an excuse to stop asking hard questions.

In Europe, democracy is often cited as a founding principle of the Union. Yet many citizens feel increasingly disconnected from the decisions shaping their lives. That’s because the institutions that hold the real power in the EU aren’t the ones they vote for.

Take the European Commission: it proposes all legislation, yet its members are appointed, not elected. The European Parliament, despite being the only directly elected EU body, can’t initiate laws. The European Central Bank wields immense influence over the economy—but is entirely shielded from democratic oversight.

Even national elections offer little control. The economic frameworks that guide national policies are written into treaties and enforced by unelected bodies. Leaders may change, but the direction often doesn’t. The rules of the game are locked in.

This setup isn’t neutral. It reflects specific choices: to prioritize market liberalization, budget austerity, and technocratic control. And when citizens push back—against privatizations, social cuts, or rigid fiscal rules—they’re told there is no alternative.

But democracy isn’t just about procedures. It’s about power. It’s about the ability of people to shape the systems they live under. When rules become untouchable and decisions feel remote, frustration is inevitable.

Europe doesn’t lack democracy in name. It lacks it in practice. And if we want a democratic future, we need to stop confusing voting with agency—and start reclaiming real control.

Democracy’s expertise dilemma

In western democracies, citizens elect representatives to make decisions on their behalf. But here’s the catch: most voters have little to no understanding of the complex issues their elected officials must navigate. The elected people not much more so. We ask politicians, whose primary skill is communication and whose primary goal is to keep their role at the next election cycle, to make all the decisions of staggering complexity:

• What is the maximum permissible pesticide residue in a potato? A question requiring toxicology, agronomy, and long-term health studies—answered by legislators who, moments earlier, were debating highway funding.

• How should the energy market be structured for the next 50 years? A puzzle of physics, economics, and geopolitics, decided by people who couldn’t explain the difference between a kilowatt and a kilowatt-hour.

• What economic policies should be forced on a developing nation? Imposed by officials who might struggle to name two of its cities, let alone its cultural or economic realities.

• What skills should children learn to prepare for a world 50 years from now? A forecast requiring futurism, pedagogy, and labor market analysis—left to politicians whose time horizon ends at the next election cycle.

Each of these topics are deeply technical, filled with intricate trade-offs and uncertain outcomes. Yet, elected people, most of their staff and most leaders of organizations are politicians better trained to “spin a story” than to calmly analyze trade-offs.

Yet the people we elect are expected to make informed choices on all these fronts, often relying on expert advice. But what if those experts aren’t as impartial or trustworthy as we hope?

Recent hearings before the French Senate revealed how some government officials deliberately inserted loopholes into legislation to benefit private interests. Even more troubling, a prominent expert testified that experts today often act as “narrators for hire,” using complexity not to clarify but to favour a narrative. Instead of illuminating difficult choices, they spin fog to protect vested interests.

This erosion of trust has very real consequences. When energy consultants treat nuclear reactors and solar panels as interchangeable “widgets,” or when central bankers dismiss inflation as “transitory” while families struggle to pay bills, citizens grow frustrated and disengaged. 

We are constantly told to “follow the science,” but we actually are influenced by people taking a stance on TV rather than the hardworking people in the shade. The question remains: which science? Whose funding influences it? Which experts are truly independent? When scientific knowledge becomes politicized or manipulated, people lose their compass.

The crisis is clear: modern democracies ask too much of citizens who receive too little in return. We demand that voters understand and weigh technical policies without providing transparent, trustworthy information. Then we blame them when they feel confused, cynical, or turn to populist alternatives.

Democracy was never designed to function as a solo act. Its strength depends on a shared infrastructure of reliable knowledge and accountability. Without credible experts and honest debate, every vote becomes a guess in the dark—blindfolded and uncertain.

The EU: A democratic façade?

Europe's mediatico-politico circle is still praising itself of the democratic ideals and values, often held up as a shining example of citizen participation and rule of law. At first glance, Europe might seem like democracy’s last stronghold—a union of nations working together, guided by shared values and elected representatives. But scratch the surface, and the picture gets more complicated.

In France, experts estimate that somewhere between 60% and 70% of the laws passed are directly shaped by EU directives or regulations. And yet, the average citizen has almost no idea where these rules come from—let alone any real power to shape them. The European Parliament, the only EU institution we actually vote for, can’t even propose laws. That’s the job of the European Commission, a body of unelected officials who don’t answer to voters.

This isn’t an abstract or inconvenient design flaw—it shapes real decisions with lasting consequences. In the 2010s, the EU slashed tariffs on Chinese solar panels. Pushed by the Commission in the name of “market openness,” the goal was to support the narrative that solar energy was cheaper. But what happened? By 2023, 95% of Europe’s solar panels came from China, and Europe’s own industry had all but disappeared. There was no major debate. No public consultation. Just a technocratic decision—made far from the people who would pay the price to serve the political agenda of a few.

The same pattern is repeating today. At NATO’s urging, European leaders are committing to spending up to 5% of GDP on military budgets. That’s a staggering amount—more than any public vote ever approved. Meanwhile, basic services like education, health care, or climate adaptation face growing budget cuts. Who decided that? Based on which data? Certainly not the citizens.

Now, to be fair, supranational coordination can be a force for good. But when big choices are made behind closed doors, even the best intentions can breed distrust.

If we want a Europe that’s truly democratic, then people need more than a ballot box every five years. They need a voice in the decisions that shape their lives. Until then, the EU risks looking less like a democracy—and more like a very polite empire.

Centralized efficiency? China and other non-western models

Discussions about governance often get stuck in simple categories: democracy versus authoritarianism, freedom versus control. But those labels can sometimes stop us from seeing what really matters—the real impact these systems have on the people living under them.

China if often looked at as “authoritarian” and left at that. But look a little deeper, and you see a country that’s built a governance model focused on long-term planning and delivering concrete results. Over the past few decades, China has lifted hundreds of millions of people out of poverty, built the world’s largest high-speed rail network, and taken the lead in industries like solar panels and rare earth metals. These aren’t just numbers; they represent real improvements in people’s lives.

Other places, like Singapore and the UAE, don’t fit the Western idea of democracy either—but they’ve found ways to govern that bring stability, growth, and a decent quality of life. People there often say they’re satisfied with how things are run.

What connects these models is a mindset that governance isn’t about clinging to the past or winning the next election. It’s about “borrowing from our children,” making choices today that may not bring immediate rewards but lay the groundwork for a better future. The real value of those decisions is in what they actually achieve over time.

Sure, centralized systems come with trade-offs. Size matters as well. China graduates several million STEM engineers per year, engineers who will face competition from all the others. They can limit freedom and silence dissent.

So maybe the question isn’t which system is “better” by label, but which one truly delivers value to its people. If we only think legitimacy comes from elections, we might miss the bigger picture—how much quality of life, security, and opportunity really matter. It might be time to move beyond the usual categories and ask a more important question: how can governance genuinely serve us all, not just today but for the generations that come after?

What should a government actually deliver?

At some point, every serious conversation about politics has to pause and ask the most basic question: what is the point of government?

We often get caught in the architecture of systems—parliaments, presidents, referendums, parties. But underneath the scaffolding, what should we expect from governance itself? What does success really look like?

At its core, a government should deliver value to its citizens. Not just the visible kind—roads, jobs, safety—but also the invisible foundations of a thriving society: long-term security, shared prosperity, sustainability, and a sense of agency over one’s life. These are the things people deeply care about, even if they don’t always fit into partisan slogans.

And yet, in most modern democracies, we’ve created a strange dynamic. Nearly half of voters in many Western nations are at or near retirement age. This isn’t a moral judgment—it’s a demographic fact. But it creates a paradox: systems meant to govern for the future are being shaped by electorates with shrinking time horizons. That’s not anyone’s fault, but it raises real questions about how we prioritize policies. Can a system vote for the long term when its voters are living in the short term?

Add to this the crisis of trust in institutions and the growing sense that conventional politics is out of sync with the complexity of today’s world. Climate change, artificial intelligence, economic inequality—these aren’t problems that fit into 4-year election cycles.

So maybe it’s time to ask not “Which ideology do we follow?” but “What traits make for a good system?”

We might start by looking for governance models that are:
• anchored in long-term thinking,
• responsive to real data and outcomes,
• accountable to citizens—not just through elections, but in day-to-day decision-making,
• and open to participation beyond party lines.

Ideas already exist: citizen assemblies that bring diverse voices into decision-making. Digital tools that allow for more frequent and nuanced consultation. Decentralized governance that shifts power closer to communities.

None of this requires abandoning democracy—but it does require evolving it. If we want systems that genuinely serve people, we must let go of the idea that tradition alone guarantees truth. What matters is not how a system looks on paper, but what it delivers in practice—and whether it builds a future that those who come after us will thank us for.