The Legend of Soft Power

Like millions of other people around the world, I have spent much of the past few weeks playing The Legend of Zelda: Tears of the Kingdom (TotK), the nineteenth installment in Nintendo’s widely acclaimed series. With ten million units reportedly sold in its first three days—and other metrics on the prevalence of gaming and significant industry profits even after a rough 2022—I have started to wonder why the study of popular culture and International Relations (IR) has given video games relatively little attention.

Work on popular culture and IR has identified various ways in which films, television series, popular literature, and other cultural artifacts (often in the science fiction genre) might reflect and even affect real-world politics. It stands to reason that video games could have similar effects, but with few notable exceptions, these products have received much less attention than those in more established media. I will more systematically consider how video games might affect our political world in my next post. For now, I want to focus on TotK.

TotK might not seem like a game that offers much fodder for IR scholars. There is plenty of fun to be had, but at least in the first half of the game that I have completed, there is little explicitly political content. The story is a fairly straightforward tale of good versus evil, and our valiant hero, Link, is asked to find damsel-in-frequent-distress Princess Zelda.

At most, TotK scandalously asks you to corrupt a local mayoral election by gifting mushrooms from one of the candidates to potential voters. [Spoiler alert] Your election interference matters little—the two candidates decide to share power because, as it turns out, “The best way to keep Hateno Village vibrant is to work together to combine traditional culture with new ideas!”

Where TotK might matter most clearly for IR scholars is in the scope of the game’s reach. This will likely end up being one of the best-selling games of all time, and wherever it falls on that list, it will join many other Nintendo products. Given Nintendo’s world-wide popularity—as well as that of other Japanese game developers and publishers—we might consider whether popular cultural exports like TotK act as a source of “soft power” for the exporting country.

As Joseph Nye originally defined the concept in 1990, soft power is “co-optive” rather than “command” power displayed “when one country gets other countries to want what it wants”. Nye identified “culture” as a “soft power resource” because a state that “stands astride popular channels of communication has more opportunities to get its message across and to affect the preferences of others”. (See the Duck’s own Peter Henne on this topic for a more detailed discussion of this concept.)

For Nye, soft power was a central aspect of his argument—developed more fully in Bound to Lead: The Changing Nature of American Power—that the United States would not soon be eclipsed by any other potential competitor. The volume and uptake of American cultural exports constituted evidence that the United States could remain the world’s leading power even if others made some relative gains in the military or economic domains.

Nye saw various kinds of cultural exports as generative of American soft power. “Young Japanese who have never been to the United States wear sports jackets with the names of American colleges. Nicaraguan television broadcast American shows even while the government fought American-backed guerrillas. Similarly, Soviet teenagers wear blue jeans and seek American recordings, and Chinese students used a symbol modeled on the Statue of Liberty during the 1989 uprisings.”

By contrast, Nye saw Japanese cultural exports as unlikely to overtake American popular culture on the world stage. “Although Japanese consumer products and cuisine have recently become more fashionable, they seem less associated with an implicit appeal to a broader set of values than American domination of popular communication.”

Whether one is playing TotK or, say, watching 2020’s highest-grossing film, Demon Slayer: Mugen Train, today’s ubiquity of Japanese cultural exports would suggest that such products have broader appeal and may be a more reliable source of soft power than Nye expected.

Writing a year before Nye, Francis Fukuyama made such an argument—”the triumph of the West” could be seen in part through the spread of its popular culture, and Japan’s popular cultural products had helped make it one of the world’s leading powers. Japan had “follow[ed] in the footsteps of the United States to create a truly universal consumer culture that has become both a symbol and an underpinning of the universal homogenous state”.

Fukuyama was not concerned that Japanese cultural products would rival those of the United States. Rather, the successful post-war infusion of “the essential elements of economic and political liberalism” into Japan produced a popular culture that complemented American cultural products and that affirmed “consumerist” liberal democracy as a path toward prosperity and influence.

For me and many others, the hours we log restoring order to TotK‘s Kingdom of Hyrule represent a fraction of the exposure we have had to Japanese cultural exports. Do all those experiences—perhaps the experiences of watching Studio Ghibli films, reading Haruki Murakami novels, or decluttering with Marie Kondo’s assistance—translate into soft power?

If enough Americans engage with images of Japan that generate fond feelings for (or “affective investment” in) the country, does that mean that the United States as a government will be more likely to “want what [Japan] wants” in at least some areas?

I do not yet have firm answers to these questions. At a time when Chinese officials are seeking to enhance their own country’s soft power, however, and when Japanese game developers are fretting about the rise of the Chinese gaming industry, it would be worth building on some of the scholarship I have cited here to answer such questions. We might thereby bring video games more fully into the study of popular culture and IR.

Author’s note: I have edited the original post to specify that “IR” is an acronym for International Relations and to add a spoiler alert for a side quest.

On Continuity in U.S. Military Basing Practices

If you are interested in U.S. military basing policy, you have a lot of good work to read these days.

Some recent contributions to this literature—Michael A. Allen et al.’s Beyond the Wire: U.S. Military Deployments and Host Country Public Opinion and Sebastian Schmidt’s earlier Armed Guests: Territorial Sovereignty and Foreign Military Basing—have already been covered on The Duck. Claudia Junghyun Kim’s new book, Base Towns: Local Contestation of the U.S. Military in Korea and Japan, is just the latest entry in a burgeoning field.

Much of this work is motivated at least in part by an increasingly powerful China and debate about the extent to which overseas U.S. bases will allow it to project sufficient power to deter Chinese revisionism in the region. (This similarly motivates recent work that seeks to specify different types of revisionism.) The debate on the efficacy of “tripwire” forces, for example, is oriented toward such concerns.

Given such interest in current U.S. basing arrangements, this literature tends to focus on basing as it has been practiced since the end of World War Two (or, instead, since the Spanish-American War of 1898). There is often good reason to do so, but as I will discuss in an MPSA presentation next week, I believe that there is more continuity in the history of U.S. military basing policy than is typically assumed.

Allen et al. offer a helpful starting point in thinking about this continuity. As they write, “The US has a long history of using military bases to expand its influence. The process of westward expansion across the North American continent was accompanied by the construction of numerous military bases to aid in the projection of military power against Great Britain, Spain, France, Mexico, and Native Americans, as it sought to assert control over the increasingly vast territories settlers occupied.”

Allen et al. ultimately distance this pre-1898 basing from post-1898 basing: “[T]he US ultimately sought to extend direct control over these territories, making them a part of the country itself. …The US began actively sending troops overseas on long-term deployments after the Spanish-American War.”

If the United States used early military bases “to expand its influence” through the concentration of military power in strategic locations, however, is that so different from the ways bases are used today?

We might also reconsider the foreign/domestic distinction that often divides pre- and post-1898 basing. The United States did construct bases on territory that others claimed as their own earlier in its history; policy-makers simply did not recognize those claims. That is, to contrast early “domestic” basing with later “overseas” basing elides Indigenous claims to sovereignty that gave rise to violent contestation.

For example, the U.S. military’s eventual success in the Northwest Indian War depended largely on the construction of forts in the Northwest Territory. That land had been ceded by Britain to the United States in the 1783 Treaty of Paris, but in the Ohio River Valley, groups such as the Shawnee and the Miami claimed the land as their own. The United States would go to war to enforce its claims by 1790.

After early battlefield defeats, the United States only managed to more effectively project power by creating a string of forts in the region. Those forts served varying roles—some served primarily to maintain supply lines while others served more clearly offensive or defensive purposes—but they were all designed to enable the projection of power and the expansion of U.S. influence.

If I’m right in arguing that there is more continuity here than is typically appreciated, research on modern U.S. military basing might more frequently turn to the pre-1898 period to consider how, for example, anti-base contestation and elite legitimization of basing arrangements manifested on the early American frontier. Similarities or differences in those earlier practices may help us to better understand practices of the more recent past and present.

Why Blog Now? An Introduction

The blogosphere peaked somewhere in the mid-2000s, so why would anyone start blogging in 2023? That is the question I asked myself when Dan Nexon asked me if I would be interested in joining The Duck as a term blogger.

I entered the University of Miami as a Political Science major in 2009, and within my first couple years there, I took an interest in International Relations (IR). Beyond my classes at Miami, the blogosphere was one of my first points of connection to the discipline.

By the time I became aware of academic blogging, it was becoming increasingly accepted as a supplement to traditional scholarly publishing. Foreign Policy hosted blogs by the likes of Daniel Drezner, Marc Lynch, and Stephen Walt. The Monkey Cage published policy-oriented pieces based on research from across Political Science. The Mischiefs of Faction gave me a view into the study of American politics.

The Monkey Cage would become associated with The Washington Post in 2013, and Drezner followed in 2014. The Mischiefs of Faction similarly gained a platform at Vox in 2015.

Blogging became a sufficiently prominent and somehow controversial practice that the International Studies Association considered crafting a policy on the matter: “No editor of any ISA journal or member of any editorial team of an ISA journal can create or actively manage a blog unless it is an official blog of the editor’s journal or the editorial team’s journal.” The 2014 proposal went nowhere.

The online ecosystem of public-facing work by political scientists continues to change. The Washington Post and Vox no longer host the aforementioned blogs. While #AcademicTwitter may muddle through the changes wrought by Elon Musk, many are now looking to alternatives like Substack, Post, and Mastodon.

The Duck too has changed over time. Dan Nexon founded it in 2005, and he, Patrick Thaddeus Jackson, and Rodger Payne would be the three primary contributors in its early days. The masthead has changed since then, and so has the content published here. But I have enjoyed The Duck since stumbling upon it in my college days for its deep dives on IR theory and methods, its occasional debates and forums, and its musings on all things academic.

Nexon was once asked, “What is academic blogging for?” He responded, “The correct question should be: what is academic blogging not for? Specific academic blogs may wear a variety of different hats – from promoting research, to working out ideas, to engaging with policy questions, to forwarding a particular field of study, to commiserating about the profession, to writing about sports, to just about anything else that you might imagine.”

As a term blogger, I intend to take a cue from Dan. I will be writing on various topics for all sorts of reasons, but I will be doing so while keeping in mind what attracted me to The Duck as an undergrad.

What does Andor Believe?

According to conventional wisdom, Disney’s Andor is the best Star Wars narrative in years. Political scientists seem to agree. Dan Drezner speaks for many when he writes that the show’s “writing is stellar,” its “locations are great,” and its “visuals” are “arresting.” “But,” he argues, “there’s a deeper, simpler reason” why Andor succeeds so well: it is “the first Star Wars property… intended for grown-ups.” 

Andor takes place after Revenge of the Sith and before Rogue One, when the Galactic Empire is tightening its grip throughout the galaxy. The show’s story is deeply political — it depicts the emergence of the rebellion against the Empire — and its creative team does a good job with the politics of imperialism and the challenges that an increasingly repressive regime poses to collective action. 

The incipient rebellion tries to provoke imperial overreach and promote radicalization. Careerist imperial bureaucrats try to disrupt emerging networks of rebellion. Civilians often get caught in the crossfire.

Andor‘s showrunner, Tony Gilroy, explicitly draws on the history of uprisings against oppressive regimes. “There are things all the way through the show,” he explained in an interview, “and I don’t want to go through and quote chapter and verse, but this is the Russian Revolution. This is the Montagnard. This is something interesting that happened in the Haitian Revolution. This is the ANC. Oh, this is the Irgun Building, Palestine. This is the Continental Congress.” 

I think that Andor deserves much of its praise. But as a long-time Star Wars fan, I do think that the show suffers from a fundamental tension: it wants to do “grown-up,” morally ambiguous politics in a universe where all things are shaped by the metaphysical machinations of The Force.

The central axis of the Star Wars is a struggle between good and evil — the “light” and “dark” side of The Force. One of the things that makes Andor so compelling is its careful portrayal of how a truly evil political system functions.

The viewer becomes well-acquainted with the Empire’s “bureaucracy of domination.”

The central axis of the Star Wars is a struggle between good and evil

The Empire’s corporate security contractors attract many employees eager to abuse the minimal authority entrusted to them. Officers of the Imperial Security Bureau authorize any violence necessary to establish “order” and win bureaucratic turf wars. Prisoners become disposable cogs in an imperial machine that extracts as much labor from them as possible. Imperial scientists ensure that no suffering goes to waste; the distorted cries of massacred alien children are used to torture multiple characters.

Star Wars is far less clear about what makes for a “good” political system. The most we get in Andor is a manifesto written by a “true believer” in the nascent rebellion, Karis Nemik, who argues that the Empire is stripping people of their “elemental rights” to freedom, independence, and justice.  While Nemik pitches his manifesto to Cassian — who is, at that point in the story, calling himself “Clem” — their compatriot Arvel Skeen interrupts: “I’d like to hear what Clem believes.” All Cassian can say is that, “I know what I’m against. Everything else will have to wait.” 

Nemik’s manifesto, from which we hear an excerpt in the season finale, has freedom at its core:

Freedom is a pure idea. It occurs spontaneously and without instruction. …The Empire’s need for control is so desperate because it’s so unnatural. Tyranny requires constant effort. It breaks. It leaks. Authority is brittle. Oppression is the mask of fear.

We don’t know if Nemik aims for the restoration of the Galactic Republic, something less centralized, or an even more radical break with the past. It is one thing to yearn for “freedom,” another to design political institutions that genuinely protect it.

Saw Gerrera claims to be the only revolutionary with “clarity of purpose.” Gerrera first appeared in The Clone Wars television series, where he led an anti-Separatist insurgency alongside his sister, Steela.

In Andor, he voices opposition to “neo-Republicans,” “human cultists,” “sectorists,” and “galaxy partitionists” —whatever these mean — but his politics are treated as less important than his military tactics. 

Gerrera is an extremist. He commits brutal acts of violence. For him, the ends justify the means. In Rogue One, Gerrera uses his final words to encourage the protagonist, Jyn Erso: “Save the Rebellion! Save the dream!” Gerrera’s political dream, however, remains ambiguous.

Two others in Andor might offer us a vision of a good political system — Mon Mothma, a senator from Chandrila, and Luthen Rael, who orchestrates much of the emerging rebellion while fronting as a dealer of rare artifacts. 

Rael, like Gerrera, is defined by a particular approach to resistance—one that, in a dangerous move in the moral universe of Star Wars, seeks “to use the tools of my enemy to defeat them.” His political ends are anti-Imperial but otherwise unclear.

Even if our heroes could agree on what they want, however, it’s not entirely clear that it would actually matter.

Mothma, who presents as a mildly irritating advocate of imperial restraint while surreptitiously trying to establish a network of anti-imperial allies, has a more well-developed neo-Republican vision. Mothma will eventually become a central figure in the original trilogy’s Rebel Alliance—that is, the Alliance to Restore the Republic—but it is not clear why restoration should suffice. 

As Paul Musgrave notes, the choices demanded of Mothma make her a compelling presence. Yet her neo-Republicanism offers only the unimaginative nostalgia for a broken system that Padmé Amidala offered in the prequel trilogy and The Clone Wars series

Emperor (formerly Chancellor) Sheev Palpatine was able to subvert the Republic from within partly because it had become ineffectual and corrupt. Mothma, Amidala, and their few allies in the Senate offer no serious rethinking of a system that consistently failed its citizens, served the interests of the rich and powerful, and deployed the equivalent of a slave army against its foes.

Even if our heroes could agree on what they want, however, it’s not entirely clear that it would actually matter.

The Force has a will of its own. That will tends toward metaphysical good. In Star Wars, the universe really has a moral arc. This leaves Andor with a problem. Are Nemik, Andor, and the others fomenting rebellion simply instruments of the Force?

Such questions — including whether the Jedi and Sith themselves are ultimately used by the very Force they seem to wield — have made an appearance in The Last Jedi, multiple Clone Wars arcs, and in some media retconned as “legends” after Disney’s acquisition of the franchise. None of them have provided much in the way of answers.

Given the need to tell stories about heroes and villains making choices, those running the franchise are unlikely to resolve the matter in favor of a strongly deterministic view. But the role of The Force in Star Wars undermines stories that portray moral ambiguity — and limits any lessons that viewers might draw for real-world political and ethical dilemmas.

Perhaps it is simply too difficult to articulate a positive vision of galactic politics in a series meant for twelve-year-olds. The sequel trilogy’s quick dismissal of the New Republic may underscore the problem. It is easy enough to oppose galactic tyranny; it is more difficult to present a vision for what a just political system looks like. It’s also good for business if everyone can see themselves in the “good guys”.

All this matters for more than the viewing experience. Regardless of how realistic it is, fiction can inform reality or serve as a teaching tool in moderation. From Andor’s dehumanizing prison system on Narkina 5 to the working-class solidarity on Ferrix, the show’s goods and evils invite us to hold a mirror to our own political systems. I hope the second (and final) season gives us more goods to contemplate alongside the evils.