A Shepherd for the Naïve

The Role of Government: Resource Allocator, Referee, or Shepherd?

The role of government is a primary point of debate in common and scholarly discourse alike. Some hold that government’s role is that of a resource allocator and, through its use of power, has a responsibility to achieve some semblance of equality or equilibrium in the populace, particularly when issues of vulnerability arise (Kohn, 2014). Douglass North (1990) held that institutions provide the “rules of the game in a society . . . they structure incentives in human exchange” (p. 3). In this view, and following Coase’s (1960) argument, parties enter into contracts because transaction costs are low—They are kept low by a government of laws reducing potential obstacles to contract process and potential negative impacts of externalities in the general marketplace. This is not a new conversation—Hobbes (1651), for one, noted the release of personal power and rights in exchange for creation of the commonwealth, “for their peace and common defence.”

Public participation is also an issue for many governments (Muhammad, Masron, & Majid, 2015). There remains a considerable normative contention for public involvement in policy- and rulemaking in the literature (Head, 2011), and these discussions tend to hinge on the legitimacy of public institutions. Involving the public increases consent for public policy choices, in that the public might support what it had a hand in creating—and therefore, the legitimacy of government may increase. This goes beyond representative government through elections to the level of administrative rules, where it could be said that those members of the public most likely to participate in such policy outreach activities are those with most to gain or lose from a proposed policy measure. In the Administrative Procedure Act, a U.S. law requiring public participation, it is a stated requirement that an

agency shall give interested persons an opportunity to participate in the rule making through submission of written data, views, or arguments with or without opportunity for oral presentation. After consideration of the relevant matter presented, the agency shall incorporate in the rules adopted a concise general statement of their basis and purpose. (Administrative Procedure Act, 1946)

To the law’s credit, or detriment depending on one’s view, there are no parameters on what might constitute a manifestation of the public’s interest in regulation, or the level to which agencies must consider such input; the law is vague on those points.

However, full participation, if such a thing exists, almost never occurs in government, and pretensions to the legitimacy of government might be based on the silence or passivity of the majority mistaken as assent. Even as an ideal, the notion of full participation of everyone in a community, and a government entity attempting to act as referee for competing priorities in a manner that would satisfy the populace, seems far-fetched. Public participation takes time, and the process often lacks clarity of purpose (45-day public comment periods are common in Federal government in the United States, and little guidance from regulatory agencies is offered as to what constitutes beneficial feedback or input or how to discern whether the comment period has been efficacious). This increases the cost of government and potentially delays needed change, leaving bureaucracy mired in an unresponsive monotony. It is sometimes dubious how or if public input once offered is incorporated in the making of public policy. Perhaps the machinations of government depend on a lack of interest amongst the public—an apathy that allows for someone’s idea of progress; this perspective makes the call for participation from anyone interested somewhat disingenuous.

Consider for a moment that Tocqueville’s warning could already have come to pass—that control of the population is ultimately more important than active civic engagement. Imagine that even when public participation is invoked or required, the involvement is purely one of going through the requisite contrivances. Time is allotted for giving opinion, the opinion of the public is given, and then politicians and government do whatever it was they had planned to do anyway. The right one has to state one’s opinion seems offered primarily to mollify the process going forward, so that control and stability can prevail. In such an environment, the role of government might be threefold: control of populations through rules, as suggested by Tocqueville; regularization of identities in a manner that limits individual boundaries, limiting opportunities for destabilization; and stabilization of relations among people and groups through various forms of intervention, policy, and otherwise. All three are grounded in system maintenance, rather than responsive, transparent governance. To some extent, government must still act as a resource allocator and referee, but these activities are in support of guiding the flock.

The problem in evaluating quality of government, or of soundness of government performance, is complex, and similar to the problem that confronts the divide between the natural and social sciences. Social science, like public policy, is not value-neutral (Bernstein, 1978). While there is (sometimes) consensus from the scientific community on natural sciences, in the social sciences, there are often sharp disagreements about even the most basic of considerations. When it comes to policy, as Hauser (1969) noted,

Social accounting [becomes] possible only after consensus is achieved on social goals . . . development of social goals . . . is a function that must be performed by society as a whole . . . presumably [reflecting] the desires of the majority of the people. (p. 15)

It is rare for people to agree on conceptions of public policy matters, so the ideal of honestly accounting for the outcomes of policy, and the connection of policy goals to some imagined will of the public-at-large, might be nothing more than a serviceable fiction, perpetuated to maintain control.

Media, too, has changed considerably even in the past decade, fundamentally altering the terrain upon which the public encounters its government. Marshall McLuhan (2011) reminded us that “the medium is the message” (p. 19), and this appears to be increasingly the case in how government communicates. Government agencies have Facebook and Twitter presences, and heads of government have YouTube sites for “interaction” with the public. One can follow and “like” leaders in a virtual way, contributing to one’s own virtual public persona. The public can even create petitions, and if enough people agree and sign them, action might be taken. ¹ The actual interaction is superficial at best, but there is the appearance of involvement, and the chance at least that action might be taken if enough people speak up. As of January 2013 on the White House petition site, “to require a response, a petition must reach 100,000 signatures within 30 days.” ² Validity in the common market of ideas appears based in this environment on whether 99,999 others agree with the point and the manner of its proclamation, though it should be noted that petitions become searchable on the page when 150 signatures are obtained. If the “medium is the message” here, the message is that great ideas are widely held, or they do not get a hearing.

Others suggest that constant fidgeting with smartphones and the Internet, including Google searches, is interfering with human intelligence, reducing abilities to concentrate and solve problems, and making people think they know far more than they actually do (Carr, 2011). Recounting a classroom exercise requiring an “e-media fast,” Andrew Postman (2011) comments that students actually begin to have conversations with others and think about doing things that they would not have thought to do otherwise. The constant distraction—entertainment and information—stifles creativity and extra-virtual involvement with others. How people even look at technology has changed, from an intervening step in communication, to a thing-in-itself. As Allucquére Rosanne Stone (2011) suggests, computers might be either “engines of calculation . . . inside the little box is information,” or “computers are arenas for social experience and dramatic interaction . . . like a public theater . . . inside the little box are other people” (p. 204). For how they see the public, governments do not seem firmly placed in either camp, and the reality is perhaps a bit of both.

Given our present context, we see the works of literature presented here quite differently than they were intended by their authors, who were informed by the events and advances of the day. Nevertheless, the 20th-century literary community produced often nightmarish visions of tomorrows, which bear some resemblance to our todays. Huxley, Bradbury, and Forster all challenged readers then as now to contemplate an awful future, driven into being at least in part by a dispirited, unengaged public more and more interested in entertainments than in obligations.

A Final Vision: When “The Machine Stops”

Forster’s short story “The Machine Stops,” originally published in 1909, envisions a civilization forced under the earth, with each person compartmentalized in a unit of one’s own—fed all interaction and nourishment by a Machine. It is frightening not only because of the images it contains, and the ultimate denouement of the tale, but also because it anticipates the widespread use of the Internet and the prevalence of computers by decades. Much of what Forster raises has a direct relationship with public organizations and information technology. The earliest of the three works addressed in this article, its suggestions on the future of technology, government, and people are perhaps most prescient.

People of the Machine seldom leave their underground compartments in this world, so all of their intellectual and sensory stimulation is provided by the Machine itself. This removes them sufficiently from the bother of one-to-one human interaction; even at the beginning of the current century, many citizens expressed the need for sanitized relations through constant interaction with the Internet. With the advent of Facebook and other social networking, and the use of cellphones, the amount of time people spend connected to our own Machine is impressive. Tellingly, the refuse of this underground civilization is expelled (the book uses the term vomitories when referring to its vents onto the surface, as if the entire system is a living being), through vents onto the earth’s purportedly uninhabitable surface (Forster, 1909/1997). Within, the system is portrayed as sanitized, but the artificial cleanliness betrays the underlying rot.

As in the Facebook status updates, pictures of vacations to far-away climes on Instagram, and tweets on Twitter of 2015, Forster’s citizens live vicariously and virtually through the Machine. This dissociates them from their basic notions of the value of human interaction. They laugh at a time when people traveled to places, when they can get the same stimulation by having places brought to them virtually. Forster’s Machine strips human communication of nuance, disconnecting it from latent meaning in a manner suspiciously like email. The Machine

feeds us and clothes us and houses us; through it we speak to one another, through it we see one another, in it we have our being. The Machine is the friend of ideas and the enemy of superstition: the Machine is omnipotent, eternal; blessed is the Machine. (Forster, 1909/1997, pp. 110-111)

From a governmental perspective, the Committee of the Machine casts this giver and protector of life in god-like ways, adding an unsavory touch of democratic despotism to a public content to live in bondage, so long as it is without pain.

Gone are notions of the moral and the ethical—of the value of community; such notions are replaced entirely by “a generation that had got beyond facts, beyond impressions, a generation absolutely colourless, a generation seraphically free from taint of personality” (Forster, 1909/1997, p. 110). Indeed, the citizen is exhorted to “Beware of first-hand ideas!” (Forster, 1909/1997, p. 109). Forster (1909/1997) writes, “Let your ideas be second-hand, and if possible tenth-hand, for then they will be far removed from that disturbing element—direct observation” (p. 109). The value of direct observation and interpretation has been cheapened by a constant flow of information between the Machine and the citizen.

Because humankind has traded so much of its ability to conquer its environment, ignoring the importance of interpersonal relationships for the sanitized version offered through the Machine, it is wholly unprepared to handle the problems that occur when the Machine begins to fail. The Committee of the Machine, an organization supposedly founded for the public good but heavy and sluggish under its bureaucratic weight, is unable to meet the crush of complaints regarding the Machine’s outages. The peoples’ ability to handle things for itself has atrophied.

It may seem a ludicrous matter, but from it we may date the collapse of humanity. The Committee responsible for the failure was assailed by complainants, whom it referred, as usual, to the Committee of the Mending Apparatus, who in its turn assured them that their complaints would be forwarded to the Central Committee. (Forster, 1909/1997, p. 114)

As it turns out, the downfall of the Machine was the failure of the sleeping apparatus; even in the highly virtualized world of Forster’s vision, people still cannot do without sleep.

Subterranean citizens had long ago forgotten big picture concepts, concentrating instead on the reality fed to them through the Machine. People became more vulnerable because they could no longer solve problems and think for themselves; capacities in the practical matters of being human or keeping the system operational were proscribed by investment in entertaining the public and keeping it docile. The failure of the Machine to provide for its dependents is therefore a life-ending proposition for the entire civilization. It is not so far-fetched to see that, in the decades since the invention of the Internet, we might swing dangerously close to Forster’s warning of the collapse of society. People may have lost a sense of civilization by believing a Machine could be human, or even a suitable replacement for humanity. The public is easily enamored with the beauty and facility of invention, so much so that it has put great trust in it; it is there we rest ourselves in self-denial. People who have barely enough resources to survive insist on having the very latest cellphone technology and “apps.”

Government has difficulty attracting not only voters but also involvement in the day-to-day operation of government, so that rules and rulemaking are far removed from the realities of the public. Public participation in government is limited to a few minutes in a council meeting, and when that is completed, too often, the body politic goes on to make exactly the same decision, informed by special interests, that it would have absent any pretension to public involvement. The public lives only virtually, through the despotic governance of the Machine, and through commission or omission, we have committed an unpardonable sin against the body; we have made it dependent and unable to respond to its environment. Unlike the citizens of Forster’s story, though, our Machine has not yet stopped; there may yet still be time to change the nature of our public institutions, and our interaction with machines, to return to an allowance for individuality.

Concluding Thoughts

While the power of technology is undeniable, it is worth considering that it “is neither good nor bad; nor is it neutral,” as Kranzberg (1986, p. 545) noted. It can be a tool with great potential for the sharing of knowledge, as in Lyotard’s view. To Lyotard, free access to information technology is a facilitator to the development of local narrative and essential to the increase of meaning and understanding throughout a larger society. By the same token, information technology can be an elite tool of power over the masses—the privileged have legitimated themselves by tradition and the falsehood of scientific totality to decide what constitutes truth. This dual nature of information technology is in keeping with its guise as a tool of power, whether it is shared or hoarded (Lyotard, 1984).

The world of Kranzberg’s “laws” of technology and history when the article was published in 1986, and today are startlingly different, and technology’s reach into our lives has likely outpaced reasonable individual control and our ability to effectively say “no” to its use, yet still retain a place in society. In this respect, we are all compelled to enter technology’s door (White, 1962), whether we like it or not. Cellular telephones, electronic mail, and the Internet were all an invitation to simplify lives, but resulted in something else entirely—an inability for many to ever step away from connectedness, with people at the same time feeling less linked than perhaps ever in history. Hatred hides behind screen names; terror confronts us in the news even as we fool ourselves with a modicum of security, living near people with whom we never speak, even as we converse across the globe in seconds.

Kranzberg’s fourth rule is also relevant to this discussion: “Although technology might be a prime element in many public issues, nontechnical factors take precedence in technology-policy decisions” (Kranzberg, 1986, p. 550). There’s gravity to this truism and an implicit potential for trouble. It could be that technological considerations have outpaced the public interest, and allowing technology to lead in the name of innovation at the expense of other priorities has left something terribly important for humanity out of the equation. It was and is government’s responsibility to know that, but the reality of the situation is that the technology too often outpaces regulatory processes and slow government. The close relationships of business and government, with government still keen to convince the public of its business-like nature, suggests a public apparatus that will not stand in the way of any pretension to progress, even when it has good reason. The result is a government that sometimes fails to understand why it exists.

The texts of Huxley, Bradbury, and Forster all raise important issues about the use of power in our society to maintain social and political order, and the implements used in the seizure or transfer of political control. Clearly, government is portrayed as a force with potentially negative, self-serving interests in the works presented here. What is interesting is the willingness of the three citizen populations to part with some measure of their power, freedom, identity, and individuality, in exchange for social and political order. Science in all three works has left the world in a vacuum—government tends to step in when the population has gotten nervous, threatened to destroy itself, or otherwise devolve into outright anarchy. Government in each case promises stability in exchange for a portion of humanity’s essence, in effect, and yet is not able to assuage the wound left by freedom’s loss. In Franklin’s words, the world has given up liberty, and therefore, now should not expect it from other quarters, including science and information technology.

It is left to our world to decide its ends. Like appeasers before World War II, some may not “listen to warnings because they [do] not wish to hear” (C. P. Snow, quoted in McLuhan, 2011, p. 28). We are not yet at the point of final resolution that would make the conclusions of these texts inevitable. But these dystopias, through their often painful view of the nature of the human experience, have much to say about our propensity to sell our freedom to the highest bidder in exchange for even an antiseptic, artificial view of peace. Real peace, Huxley might say, can come only from perception and attentiveness. The victim of democratic despotism often does not recognize that he or she has been victimized. But it should also be recognized that the worlds of Huxley, Bradbury, and Forster could only come to pass if the population allowed that end or if citizens failed to maintain vigilance. The moral of these writers may be simply this: We reap what we sow, be it politically, socially, or spiritually. The spiritually devoid society driven to distraction is ripe to have its unused freedom usurped. Freedom left unprotected is seldom held for long, and our institutions of public service will ultimately be reflective of the choices made, or not made, by the citizenry.