Devin Hindry
We have, in recent decades, become masters of keeping score: ministers, central bankers and chief executives pore over charts that show activity rising and falling, and newspapers trumpet each new GDP figure as though it were the single vital metric of a nation’s soul. There is, I concede, great virtue in economic health, wealth buys medicine, funds schools and steadies lives but it is a mistake to confuse the measure with the meaning; prosperity is a means, not the substance. What gives life its depth is the pleasures of friendship, the slow accumulation of skill, the quiet pride of a town square that feels as if it has been loved and still is loved . This cannot be summed up in a number. When we allow the obsession with growth to crowd out the moral imagination, we impoverish the very thing we claim to want to advance: a flourishing civilisation. This is not simply a matter of taste; it is a matter of survival for the civic soul.
Walk through any historic British town and you will see,the argument for a different ordering of values. The great cathedrals: Canterbury, York and Salisbury among them were not the result of quarterly planning but of acts of communal patience, where generations laboured not for immediate return but because there was an understanding that the future deserved beauty. Cathedrals embody the belief that some projects exceed the narrow metric of cost-benefit analysis: they are physical monuments that tell us societies once thought it worth investing, across decades or even centuries, in things that would outlive them. Those same instincts shaped medieval guilds, associations of craftsmen who guarded standards, trained apprentices and maintained a code of excellence who acted not just as economic organisations but as custodians of expertise and civic responsibility. Guilds demanded sacrifice and patience; they demanded that we think beyond the next accounting period.
Jump forward to the nineteenth century and the story repeats itself in a modern key: the Victorians left behind civic works that were investments in public life. Sir Joseph Bazalgette’s sewers, conceived and built at great expense and with an eye to durability and public health, rescued London from repeated cholera outbreaks and made modern life possible. Town halls, public libraries and schools sprang up across the country as tangible signs that the civic realm mattered. The Arts and Crafts movement, led by figures such as William Morris, issued an eloquent critique of the factory’s anonymous goods and pleaded that beauty, skill and the value of honest workmanship were not luxuries but essentials of a humane society.
After the Second World War the same sense of civic purpose briefly reasserted itself: rubble was cleared, new homes were raised and the Festival of Britain in 1951 celebrated each small craft and design that knitted the nation back together. Post-war reconstruction, from the new towns to public housing schemes was not merely about building dwellings but, in intention at least, about rebuilding community and giving people spaces in which to belong. Some of those projects failed in practice and some succeeded, but the aim was not disposable profit so much as durable habitation.
Compare those civic acts with the more recent rhythms of development and the contrast is stark. In the age of instant commerce and shareholder primacy, buildings are often conceived as widgets to be squeezed for yield: housing estates are planned to maximise units per acre rather than to foster conversation between neighbours, and shopping centres are designed as catchment funnels rather than as marketplaces that encourage lingering. The logic is rational within a narrow frame — minimise upfront cost, accelerate turnover, maximise return — but that frame discounts what our ancestors and many who followed them instinctively grasped, which is that human beings thrive in places that invite slowness, reward care and make room for public life. When we substitute a calculus of cost for a sensibility of stewardship, we do not simply save money; we sacrifice the conditions that make a place worth living in, and in so doing we outsource not only services but responsibility.
Corporations are often painted as the villains of this story, and to a degree they are complicit; yet they are not rogue actors so much as rational respondents to incentives we have collectively set. If regulation, tax, planning and social expectations reward speed and scale above endurance and locality, firms will respond — centralising supply chains, standardising retail formats and pressing for the cheapest inputs. Standardisation brings convenience and, often, lower prices, but scale also erodes character. When the same brand dominates fifty towns, high streets become interchangeable; the particularities that build local attachment such as the baker who knows your order, the landlord who remembers your name, the florist whose display changes with the week’s weather are lost.
The commercial reconfiguration of everyday life has consequences that do not show up on any ledger. We have replaced many of the small institutions that used to mediate social life with impersonal, efficient substitutes: the corner shop that once provided a daily encounter is now a delivery app, the pub that hosted the evening’s conversation is closing because it cannot compete with corporate leisure, and the club where parents volunteered to coach the under-11s either pays a manager’s wage or shuts. It is true that consumer choice has increased to provide more goods, more convenience and lower prices but convenience does not create companionship. The cost of efficiency is often invisible: loneliness, weaker informal safety nets and fewer opportunities for civic engagement and participation.
Education, too, has been reshaped by an instrumental logic. There was a time when universities were places of general formation, where students were invited to fall in love with ideas for their own sake; the historic function of higher education was to cultivate judgement, teach the habits of critical thought and expose the young to a range of disciplines that widen the mind Have been eroded by a narrowing measure of success. League tables, research income and graduate starting salaries have become a proxy for institutional worth. The pressure to produce employable graduates is not, in itself, unwarranted as society needs skilled graduates yet when employability overtakes intellectual formation the university risks becoming a conveyor belt for future employees rather than a temple of curiosity.
That shift has consequences for the civic imagination. We produce technocrats who are excellent at executing tasks but less practiced in asking the tougher questions that sustain civic life: what constitutes the good life? What obligations do I owe my community? How should we balance freedom with responsibility? Knowledge for its own sake has a public function; it breeds citizenship that can hold power to account and imagine alternatives. The loss of an appetite for inquiry diminishes a society’s moral imagination even as it boosts its productive capacity.
Part of this is a cultural loss of patience. Ours is an era allergic to delay: financial markets demand quarterly performance, venture capital expects rapid scaling and consumers expect next-day delivery. That relentless rhythm does not suit projects that require time to mature. Craftsmanship, which often takes years to master, does not fit easily into an impatient economy, yet craft matters precisely because it embodies a different valuation of time. The hand-forged hinge, the stone-mason’s coursing, the teacher’s long regard for a student who learns slowly — these are practices that presuppose a future worth investing in.
We are poorer for losing patience. Fast, cheap construction may answer an immediate housing shortfall, but it also produces homes that need replacing sooner, communities that lack the rooted architecture people cherish and an ethos that equates replacement with progress. Conversely, when a society is willing to spend more to build well if it accepts that an initial outlay buys decades of dignity, it reaps a different return: continuity, custodianship and a built environment that encourages respect rather than contempt. The moral economy of the long view ought to be part of any serious debate about public investment.
There is also a moral grammar embedded in craftsmanship that markets do a poor job of pricing. Craftspeople transmit standards, pass on traditions and insist on quality not because it is immediately remunerative but because it is an obligation to the material, to the patron and to future users. Guilds once formalised that obligation and apprenticeship systems inculcated habits of work and community; modern practice has often atomised training into discrete, commodified units and the result is sometimes efficiency and sometimes a loss of depth. We cannot expect, overnight, to restore guilds, nor should we, but we can reinvest in practical training that honours the slow accumulation of skill and connects it with civic purpose.
It is necessary, and politically neutral, to insist that money is not the arbiter of meaning. Affluence can buy comfort; it cannot by itself produce affection. A house filled with goods is not the same as a home filled with neighbours. A community with high GDP can still be socially fractured if wealth is concentrated and shared spaces vanish. What sustains social life are strings of ordinary reciprocity — the neighbour who collects a parcel, the parent who watches another’s child when an emergency arises, the volunteer who keeps a library open on a Saturday They yield lower crime, better mental health and more resilient local networks; in short, they are public goods that markets habitually undervalue.
if we allow the threads of social life to fray we will wake to a society that is affluent by measure yet diminished in spirit. We will have plenty of things and little to bind us to one another.
If we wish to recalibrate our priorities, we must alter what we measure and what we reward. GDP will always matter but we can and should supplement it. Measures of social cohesion, civic engagement and cultural capital ought to inform policy. Planning rules can be reshaped to favour mixed-use developments that encourage interaction over isolated dormitory estates; public procurement can reward firms for local hiring, for commitment to maintenance rather than quick turnover, and for designs that favour durability; universities can be encouraged, through funding and accreditation criteria, to protect modules and spaces devoted to broad formation.
Cultural work is required too. We must applaud not only commercial success but the patience of the craftsman, the curiosity of the teacher and the civic entrepreneur who invests in place rather than immediate scaling. Parents and teachers should praise delayed gratification and deep work as much as they praise early success. Public recognition through awards, curriculum emphasis and media coverage can shift what young people see as honourable pursuits. If we refuse to esteem the slow and the local, we consign the next generation to a narrower notion of success..
Practical steps are available: incentivise apprenticeships and long-form training, reform procurement to reward durability and local engagement, protect public libraries and community halls as investments in social capital, encourage universities to maintain courses that foster critical thinking and civic literacy (not as indulgences but as essential investments in citizenship), and reform planning codes so that developments are judged by their ability to generate social life as well as by their density targets. None of these measures is radically interventionist; each simply rebalances incentives toward what endures.
If we get this right we will not become anti-business or anti-progress; we will, instead, achieve a healthier synthesis in which growth funds what is worth sustaining rather than hollowing it out. We will produce not merely workers but citizens, not merely houses but homes, and not merely shops but places where strangers become neighbours.
This is both an alarm and an invitation, and it demands more than reflection; it demands a public response. We can continue to measure ourselves by how much we can buy to wake one morning to find that we have nothing left that truly matters or we can recalibrate. We can make policy choices, cultural choices and personal choices that favour durability, curiosity and connection.
Our civilisation is a fabric woven from countless small human acts such as teaching, repairing, listening, keeping watch, arguing civilly in public, handing on skill from one generation to the next, rhythms that make a nation. They do not flash on a dashboard; they accumulate quietly, and their rewards are durable. To rediscover them is to accept a modest, enduring truth: money alone does not make us who we are. It is our connections, our curiosity, our crafts and our common purpose that do. If we choose to measure and to value them again, we may find that the richest thing a country can be is not the wealthiest on paper but the most connected at heart.