Tag: spirituality

Although I didn’t want to publish a formal essay, I wanted to produce something otherwise rigorous. The references I make are of the authored piece I am critiquing – MacIntyre, Žižek, Lacan – I’ve discussed these figures and their works, sometimes at length.

Preamble: Setting the Encounter

Over the past several weeks, Otti Vogt and I have been circling one another in public threads on leadership, solidarity, ethics, and what might loosely be called the moral architecture of social life. At moments, we converge; more often, we don’t. The exchanges have been serious, occasionally sharp, and – credit where it’s due – largely conducted in good faith.

Recently, Otti published a more explicit articulation of the ontological commitments underlying his work – The Future of Flourishing: Toward a Dialectical Spiritual Realist Social Ontology (DRS) – a framework grounded in participatory metaphysics, virtue ethics, and an objective conception of the Good, oriented toward human flourishing. In doing so, he has done something both generous and rare in contemporary discourse: he has made his meta-assumptions visible. That gesture deserves to be taken seriously. This response is written in that spirit.

For my part, I have already shared a different set of commitments, most notably what I call the Mediated Encounter Ontology (MEOW) and the Language Insufficiency Hypothesis (LIH). These are not counter-ontologies in the conventional sense, nor are they offered as replacements for the metaphysical structures Otti defends. They are diagnostic lenses. Their purpose is to foreground mediation, semantic drift, power asymmetries, and the limits of moral language – especially where that language is asked to perform stabilising or universalising work it cannot reliably sustain.

What follows, then, is not a refutation from within Otti’s framework, nor an attempt to ‘correct’ his ontology by substituting another in its place. It is an analysis conducted from a philosophy of language that explicitly rejects the need for the kind of metaphysical grounding his project presupposes.

That distinction matters. Much philosophical disagreement fails not because arguments are weak, but because interlocutors believe they are disputing conclusions when they are, in fact, operating with incompatible assumptions about what language can do, how meaning holds, and where normativity comes from.

Accordingly, I will first restate Otti’s position as charitably and accurately as possible, including the conditions under which it appears to work well. I will then apply MEOW and LIH as analytic lenses – not to score points, but to observe how this framework behaves under pressure: across time, across groups, and across material and organisational realities. Finally, I will explain why, despite its internal coherence and aspirational appeal, I regard the project as structurally unsustainable beyond tightly aligned in-groups.

This is a polemic, but not a casual one.

This is a polemic, but not a casual one. It is written in respect of the seriousness of the work, and in full awareness that the disagreement it traces is unlikely to be resolved. I do not expect to publish this as a formal preprint, but I have structured it much as I otherwise would. The latitude afforded by a blog is used here not to loosen standards, but to speak more plainly about where the fault-lines actually lie.

1. Restating the Ontology (On Its Own Terms)

At its strongest, Otti Vogt’s framework is an attempt to rescue ethics, leadership, and social solidarity from what he takes to be the exhaustion of proceduralism, relativism, and technocratic management. The diagnosis is familiar but not trivial: without a shared moral horizon, collective action collapses into preference aggregation, power struggles, or managerial optimisation masquerading as value-neutral necessity. Against this, Otti proposes a participatory social ontology grounded in three interlocking commitments.

First, normativity is real.

Moral claims are not merely expressions of preference, strategic coordination devices, or retrospective rationalisations of power. They track something objective, even if imperfectly. The Good is not constructed ex nihilo by consensus, nor generated procedurally through participation; rather, participation presupposes it. Solidarity, dignity, and justice do not emerge bottom-up from agreement alone, but from orientation toward a moral reality that precedes and exceeds any given social formation.

Second, personhood is constitutively relational.

Individuals are not pre-social atoms who later enter into moral contracts, but beings-in-relation whose identities are shaped through participation in shared practices, institutions, and meanings. Drawing on Aristotelian virtue ethics, Christian theology, and strands of critical realism, Otti treats ethical formation not as rule-following but as the cultivation of practical wisdom within an ordered moral ecology. Virtue, here, is not compliance but excellence-in-relation.

Third, social structures are dialectical rather than merely procedural.

Change does not occur through rule revision alone, nor through technocratic optimisation, but through what might be called moral morphogenesis: the transformation of agents and structures together as they orient themselves toward better forms of collective life. Leadership, on this view, is not managerial control but ethical mediation – holding open a space in which shared participation in the Good can occur.

Importantly, this is not presented as naïve moralism. Otti is explicit that causality and ethics must be distinguished, that material conditions matter, and that social systems operate across stratified domains. His engagement with Bhaskar, Archer, and Duindam is meant to secure this distinction without collapsing ethics into natural determinism. Likewise, his invocation of Lacan and Žižek is intended to show that absence, lack, and non-identity are not defects to be eliminated, but productive tensions that drive ethical becoming rather than undermining it. On the happy path, this framework is compelling.

In small, relatively homogeneous groups – especially those already sharing a thick moral vocabulary – it offers a powerful grammar for meaning-making. It legitimises ethical judgment without reducing it to preference. It resists the flattening tendencies of procedural liberalism. It offers leaders a language richer than metrics and incentives, while avoiding crude authoritarianism. And it gives participants a sense that their actions matter not merely instrumentally, but as contributions to something genuinely worthwhile.

If one already accepts its metaphysical premises, the system is internally coherent. More than that, it is motivational, aspirational, and – within its own frame – normatively robust. That coherence is not in dispute.

What happens when this DRS framework leaves the happy path?

What is in dispute is what happens when this framework leaves the happy path: when participants do not already share the ontology, when meanings drift over time, when organisational power intervenes, and when the language of participation is asked to scale beyond aligned in-groups into contested social reality. That is where the analysis begins.

2. Where the Framework Breaks: Boundary Conditions, Not Bad Faith

The first pressure point appears the moment participation is treated as if it occurs within an open, neutral moral field.

It doesn’t.

Participation always takes place inside an already-structured semantic environment. Values, goods, virtues, and ends are never encountered as raw givens, but as pre-formatted invitations. One does not simply ‘enter’ participation; one enters a space whose grammar has been written in advance, whose concepts already carry weight, direction, and implied hierarchies of legitimacy. This is not an accidental feature of social life. It is constitutive of it.

To participate is to move within a field of meanings that already distinguishes sense from nonsense, virtue from vice, maturity from immaturity, insight from confusion. Even when those distinctions are contested, the contest itself presupposes a shared language in which disagreement can appear as intelligible disagreement rather than noise.

This matters because Otti’s framework consistently treats participation as if it were epistemically generous and normatively hospitable by default. Yet participation is never merely an invitation; it is also a constraint. It shapes what can be said without sanction, which forms of dissent register as good-faith critique, and which appear as moral immaturity, resistance, or failure to ‘grasp the horizon’.

The moment a moral centre is posited – however dialectical, however participatory – it generates a gradient of alignment. Some positions sit closer to the centre and therefore appear clearer, wiser, more attuned. Others sit further out and must explain themselves, translate themselves, or justify their deviance from what is increasingly experienced as common sense. This is not a corruption of participatory ethics. It is its inevitable consequence.

Even if the Good is not imposed but ‘participated in,’ participation itself is never symmetrical. Someone always articulates the terms. Someone always curates the language. Someone always has greater fluency in the idiom of the Good and thus greater interpretive authority over what participation currently requires.

Participation does not erase power.
It reconfigures it.

In practice, this produces a familiar asymmetry: those already aligned with the metaphysical grammar experience the framework as expansive and liberating, while those outside it experience it as invisible pressure. They are not coerced in any crude sense, but they are nonetheless nudged, corrected, reoriented, or quietly marginalised. The boundary condition, then, is simple but decisive: Participation does not erase power. It reconfigures it.

The claim that solidarity arises from participation in the Good rather than from procedure does not eliminate enforcement; it relocates it upstream, into ontology. What had previously been contested politically now appears as a matter of moral attunement or ontological adequacy. This is especially significant when the framework encounters out-groups.

For those who do not already share the metaphysical commitments – who do not recognise the same Good, or who reject the idea that such a Good exists independently of social negotiation – participation becomes conditional. Entry requires translation into a language they did not choose. Dissent must be framed in terms that already concede too much.

At that point, participation ceases to be an open moral practice and becomes something closer to initiatory alignment. This does not make the framework incoherent. It makes it local.

The problem arises only when a local moral grammar presents itself as foundational, scalable, or universally binding – when its boundary conditions are treated as philosophical necessities rather than contingent achievements. That transition is where the trouble begins.

3. Virtue as a Fluid: The Instability at the Centre

The next fault line emerges around virtue itself. Within Otti’s framework, virtue is no longer merely a description of excellence-in-practice, nor even a tradition-bound cultivation of character in recognisable forms of life. It becomes something more elusive: a dynamic orientation toward the Good, realised through participatory attunement rather than rule-following or procedural compliance.

On the surface, this looks like a strength. It avoids legalism. It avoids rigid codification. It allows for context, judgment, and development over time. But this move has a cost.

Once virtue is abstracted from stable practices and anchored instead to a transcendent moral horizon, it becomes semantically fluid. Its content is no longer secured by what people reliably do well together, but by how well their dispositions appear aligned with an ideal that itself resists definitive articulation.

At this point, virtue quietly changes function. It ceases to operate primarily as a descriptive account of excellence within a practice and becomes prescriptive as a mode of conformity to an interpretive centre. The question shifts from ‘What does excellence look like here?’ to ‘How well does this agent instantiate the orientation we recognise as virtuous?’

MacIntyre already gestures toward this danger, though he does not fully escape it. His attempt to recover virtue through traditions of practice depends on the relative stability of those traditions. Once the tradition fragments or pluralises, virtue must either harden into orthodoxy or soften into abstraction. Otti’s framework opts for the latter, but abstraction does not dissolve authority; it redistributes it.

And interpretation, inevitably, has interpreters.

When virtue becomes fluid, it also becomes indexical. Its meaning is determined less by shared activity than by ongoing interpretation. And interpretation, inevitably, has interpreters.

Those most fluent in the language of the Good become de facto arbiters of what virtue currently requires. Those less fluent must demonstrate sincerity, openness, or willingness to be formed. Virtue, in other words, becomes something one is recognised as having rather than something one demonstrably does. This produces a subtle but powerful inversion.

Instead of virtue disciplining ideals through lived practice, ideals discipline agents through moral evaluation. What begins as openness hardens into expectation. What begins as formation shades into assessment. What begins as aspiration becomes normativity with softer edges but firmer reach.

The fluidity of virtue does not eliminate moral pressure. It intensifies it, precisely because it lacks clear boundaries. And this is where temporal drift compounds the problem.

If virtue is continuously rearticulated in light of a transcendent Good, then yesterday’s excellence may become today’s deficiency – not because practices failed, but because the interpretive centre shifted. The agent who was once exemplary now appears insufficiently attuned. Correction follows. Alignment is requested. Resistance is reclassified as misunderstanding. None of this requires bad faith. None of it requires domination. It emerges naturally from the structure.

A virtue ethics that cannot tolerate virtue disagreement without moralising it is no longer describing excellence. It is managing deviation. This is not an argument against virtue per se. It is an argument against virtue untethered from stable practices and reattached to metaphysical ideals whose interpretation remains necessarily contested. Once virtue becomes a fluid, it stops being a guide to excellence and starts functioning as a solvent – dissolving difference while claiming to honour it.

Interlude: Interpretation, Gravity, and the Problem of Innocent Power

At this point, it is tempting to reassure ourselves that none of the above entails domination, coercion, or even hierarchy in any crude sense. After all, the framework under discussion explicitly rejects authoritarianism, emphasises participation, and repeatedly insists that the Good is not imposed but disclosed through relational engagement. This reassurance is sincere. It is also insufficient.

The problem is not that leaders within such a framework intend to exert power. The problem is that interpretation exerts power regardless of intention.

Any system oriented toward a transcendent Good requires interpretation. Someone must articulate what participation looks like here, now, under these conditions. Someone must distinguish fidelity from distortion, growth from regression, openness from refusal. These judgments cannot be automated, proceduralised, or dissolved into pure dialogue. They must be made.

Where judgments are made, gravity forms. This is not a psychological claim about ego, nor a moral accusation about bad faith. It is a structural observation. Interpretive authority emerges wherever meaning is stabilised long enough to guide action. The more abstract and elevated the referent, the greater the interpretive leverage required to render it actionable. The paradox is this: the more a leader insists they are not exercising authority, the harder their authority becomes to contest.

When normativity is framed as participation in the Good rather than compliance with rules, disagreement does not present itself as disagreement. It presents itself as misalignment, immaturity, or insufficient formation. Resistance is redescribed not as an alternative judgment but as a failure of attunement.

At this point, critique becomes difficult without appearing morally suspect. This is what gives participatory metaphysics its peculiar force. It does not silence opposition; it spiritualises it. Dissenters are not wrong so much as ‘not yet there’. Their objections are not refuted; they are absorbed into a narrative of ongoing formation.

This is not coercion. It is more effective than coercion. Even if a leader sincerely wishes not to exert gravity, the structure ensures that gravity accumulates around them. Those closest to the interpretive centre appear most aligned with the Good. Their judgments carry more weight. Their language becomes the idiom through which virtue is recognised.

Orientation requires reference points.
Reference points generate asymmetry.
Asymmetry generates power.

If a leader truly did not wish to exert gravity, the most consistent action would be not to lead. But leadership, by definition, involves orientation. Orientation requires reference points. Reference points generate asymmetry. Asymmetry generates power.

The framework attempts to resolve this by redescribing hierarchy as ‘participatory’ rather than directive, and authority as ‘mediating’ rather than commanding. Yet this is a semantic reconfiguration, not a structural one. The same dynamics persist under gentler names. What disappears is not power, but its visibility. And power that cannot be named cannot be resisted. It can only be internalised.

This is the point at which metaphysics becomes political, whether it intends to or not. The claim that the Good is objective does not neutralise power. It sanctifies it.

4. Temporal Semantic Drift: Why Moral Centres Do Not Hold

Even if one grants – charitably – that participatory metaphysics can function without collapsing into interpretive domination in the short term, it remains vulnerable to a more corrosive force: time.

Moral centres do not fail all at once. They drift. The framework under discussion acknowledges this in principle. It speaks of dialectical movement, of gaps between actuality and the Good, of ongoing formation rather than static completion. On paper, this appears to inoculate it against rigidity.

In practice, it does the opposite. A moral centre that must continuously reinterpret itself in light of a transcendent horizon is never neutral. Each iteration reorders what counts as fidelity, maturity, and alignment. What was virtuous yesterday may become insufficient today – not because practices degraded, but because the interpretive frame shifted.

This is not accidental. It is intrinsic. Because the Good is not fully specifiable, its articulation is always provisional. But provisional articulations still carry normative force. People organise their lives around them. Careers, identities, reputations, and exclusions follow.

Then the centre moves. Those who move with it appear wise, flexible, and developmentally advanced. Those who hesitate appear resistant. Those who remain where they are appear obstructive. Drift is redescribed as growth, and displacement as failure to keep up.

This is how moral projects shed members without ever formally excluding them. At Time-nought, alignment feels communal. At Time-one, it becomes selective. At Time-two, it becomes justificatory. By the time the pattern is visible, the language of solidarity has already done its work.

Transductive subjectivity intensifies this effect. Because subjects and structures co-constitute one another, each moment of participation subtly reshapes the field itself. The centre is never merely followed; it is reproduced through enactment. Drift compounds. What results is not pluralism, but path dependency.

Early interpretations disproportionately shape later possibilities. Foundational voices become canonical. Corrective gestures are framed as recoveries rather than revisions. The centre insists it is merely unfolding what was always implicit. At this point, appeals to the Good no longer function as orientation. They function as retrospective validation. This is where temporal semantic drift becomes decisive.

Key terms – virtue, flourishing, participation, solidarity – do not remain semantically stable across contexts or generations. They accrete meaning through use, conflict, and institutionalisation. To claim continuity is to perform continuity, not to demonstrate it.

The framework attempts to resolve this by appealing to a stable moral horizon beyond language. But this simply relocates the problem. The horizon does not speak. People do.

Custodianship introduces authority.
Authority introduces exclusion.
Exclusion introduces rationalisation.

Every attempt to stabilise meaning across time requires custodians. Custodianship introduces authority. Authority introduces exclusion. Exclusion introduces rationalisation. None of this implies malice. It implies entropy.

What works in a tightly aligned founding cohort does not survive scale, succession, or stress. History is littered with ethical systems that were internally coherent, sincerely motivated, and initially generative – until drift revealed the cost of maintaining coherence.

The claim is not that moral projects inevitably fail. It is that they cannot guarantee their own continuity without paying a price.

Participatory metaphysics offers no mechanism for escaping this. It offers only better reasons for why the price was necessary.

Interlude II: On Borrowing Žižek to Refute Žižek

At this point, a further tension must be addressed directly, because it is not incidental. It sits at the conceptual core of the framework itself.

Otti explicitly invokes Žižek and Lacan to demonstrate that absence, lack, and non-identity are not pathological failures to be overcome, but productive features of subjectivity and social life. This move is intended to show that participatory metaphysics can accommodate negativity, incompleteness, and instability without collapsing into relativism or nihilism. The intention is understandable. The result is incoherent.

Žižek’s central claim is not merely that the Big Other is fractured, incomplete, or imperfectly realised. It is that the Big Other does not exist. There is no transcendent guarantor of meaning, no symbolic authority that secures coherence from beyond the field of human practices. To ‘traverse the fantasy’ is precisely to accept this absence, not to redescribe it in more sophisticated terms.

Lacan’s notion of constitutive lack is not a privation awaiting fulfilment. It is not a gap that participation can close. It is an ontological condition: the impossibility of any final anchoring of meaning, identity, or desire. Lack is not productive because it gestures toward plenitude; it is productive because plenitude is structurally impossible. This is where the framework under review performs a decisive sleight of hand.

To invoke Lacan in support of a transcendent Good is therefore not a creative synthesis. It is a misappropriation.

By mapping Lacanian lack onto Bhaskar’s concept of real absence, the argument treats both as ‘modes of non-being that nonetheless exercise causal force’. But this collapses a distinction that Žižek and Lacan insist upon. Bhaskar’s absences are, in principle, fillable: the missing resource, the unjust structure, the preventable harm. Lacan’s lack is not. Attempts to fill it do not resolve the problem; they generate new symptoms, new fantasies, new forms of misrecognition. To invoke Lacan in support of a transcendent Good is therefore not a creative synthesis. It is a misappropriation.

What results is the reinstallation of precisely what psychoanalysis dismantles: a symbolic guarantor that promises coherence, orientation, and resolution. The Good becomes the ultimate Big Other – disavowed, abstracted, and rendered untouchable by those who claim merely to participate in it. This is not a minor theoretical inconsistency. It reveals the deeper strategy at work.

The framework borrows the critical sophistication of post-structural thought to inoculate itself against charges of naivety, while quietly reinstalling a classical metaphysics that those same thinkers spent their careers undoing. Absence is affirmed rhetorically, only to be neutralised ontologically. Negativity is welcomed, but only insofar as it can be oriented toward a pre-existing moral horizon. In effect, the language of lack is used to smuggle in fullness.

Once this move is made, the rest follows predictably. Interpretation acquires authority. Participation acquires normativity. Dissent becomes misrecognition. And the Good, now safely beyond contestation, does exactly the work the Big Other has always done – only with better philosophical cover.

5. Transductive Subjectivity: Participation Rewrites the Good

The final pressure point is not historical but immediate. Even if one brackets time, tradition, and institutional inertia, the framework still assumes something that does not hold: that subjects can participate in the Good without becoming co-authors of it. This is where transductive subjectivity becomes decisive.

Subjects are not vessels into which ethical form is poured. They are mediating agents. Every act of participation feeds back into the system that solicited it. Meaning is not transmitted intact; it is refracted through position, interest, fear, aspiration, and interpretation. Participation does not preserve coherence. It produces variance.

This is not a flaw in human beings. It is how social systems function. Each interaction slightly reshapes the normative field, altering expectations, redefining what counts as success, recalibrating what virtue now looks like in practice. Multiply this across hundreds or thousands of agents, and the idea of a stable moral centre becomes untenable without aggressive correction.

Here, Archer’s morphogenetic insight quietly undermines the aspiration of ethical constancy. Structures condition action, action transforms structure, and the cycle repeats. There is no equilibrium point. The system is always becoming something slightly different from what it was meant to be.

Either participation rewrites the Good, or the Good rewrites participants. There is no third option.

From within the framework, this is often redescribed as growth, maturation, or deepening participation. From a systems perspective, it is drift under another name. Either participation rewrites the Good, or the Good rewrites participants. There is no third option.

What holds such systems together is not metaphysical participation, but selective reinforcement. Certain interpretations of virtue are amplified; others fade. Some agents are rewarded as exemplars; others are marked as misaligned. Over time, the system converges not on the Good, but on what is most compatible with its own survival. At this point, solidarity no longer links virtue to the common good. It links conformity to belonging.

This is why ‘participative flourishing’ is not a distinct category so much as a rhetorical intensifier. Flourishing is always participative in the tautological sense that humans act together. The adjective matters only when it is doing boundary work: distinguishing authentic participation from deviant engagement. And that distinction is never neutral.

Once transductive feedback is acknowledged, the best-case scenario becomes clear. The framework can temporarily stabilise a coherent moral culture for a relatively homogeneous group. It may feel meaningful, even liberating, from within.

But it will not scale without exclusion. It will not persist without maintenance. And it will not survive contact with materially divergent lives without becoming prescriptive. This is not cynicism. It is mechanics.

6. Leadership, Power, and the Reality of Organisational Life

All of the above tensions sharpen dramatically once we leave ‘society’ in the abstract and enter organisations. Organisations are not voluntary moral laboratories. They are asymmetric structures with built-in coercion, however politely framed. Participation is rarely free when the alternative is unemployment, precarity, or social marginalisation. Exit costs matter. Silence matters. Compliance matters. This is where appeals to solidarity, virtue, and shared flourishing acquire a different texture.

In organisational settings, leadership does not operate via participative democracy. Its function is not collective deliberation, but directional coordination. Leaders set priorities, allocate resources, and define success metrics. Even the most ‘inclusive’ leadership models ultimately require alignment, not pluralism. Consultation can be widened; directionality cannot be abolished without abolishing the role itself. This produces a structural contradiction.

On the one hand, the rhetoric insists that ethics flows from participation in a shared Good. On the other, participation itself is conditioned by hierarchy. A leader may deny being a centre of gravity, but gravity does not ask permission. The mere ability to define vision, values, or culture already exerts force.

Under these conditions, solidarity does not simply emerge. It is staged. Employees learn quickly which interpretations of virtue are rewarded, which forms of dissent are tolerated, and which are quietly penalised. Moral language becomes a signalling system long before it becomes a compass.

Ethics becomes a loyalty test. Solidarity becomes alignment. Flourishing becomes a synonym for fit.

The danger here is not cartoon authoritarianism. It is something subtler and more durable: moral capture. By this I mean the process through which ethical vocabulary is absorbed into institutional incentives, such that ‘goodness’ becomes legible primarily as compliance with the organisation’s preferred self-description. Ethics becomes a loyalty test. Solidarity becomes alignment. Flourishing becomes a synonym for fit.

This is why organisational utopias tend to function best in small, ideologically homogeneous groups and become brittle as complexity increases. Add more agents, more roles, more external pressures, and more disagreement about what ‘good work’ even is, and the system faces a choice between diversity of perspective and coherence of direction. History suggests it usually chooses the latter.

Religious movements, political vanguards, start-ups, consultancies, and ‘values-led’ enterprises all confront the same dilemma. Harmony is easy when dissenters are excluded early. It becomes harder once heterogeneity enters the system. At that point, solidarity either thins into vacuous slogans or hardens into enforcement.

Girard would recognise the pattern immediately: cohesion is often purchased by identifying the misfit, the blocker, the ‘toxic’ element – the one who must be managed out so that the group can experience itself as good.

The claim that better formation, transparency, or distributed leadership can resolve this misunderstands the problem. These tools can redistribute labour and reduce certain abuses. They do not eliminate asymmetry. Someone still defines the centre, even when it is dressed up as ‘process’, ‘culture’, or ‘shared ownership’. A moral horizon interpreted by a few will, reliably, become a moral demand placed upon the many. Which brings us to the unavoidable conclusion.

7. What This Critique Is (and Is Not)

This critique is not a defence of relativism-for-fun, nor of nihilism-as-apathy. I am a nihilist in a narrow, technical sense: I deny the existence of inherent meanings that are not invented, stabilised, and transmitted through language and practice. Meaning is not discovered intact in the world; it is negotiated, maintained, and contested. That position does not entail indifference. It entails vigilance.

If meanings are made rather than given, then they require care. They require scrutiny. They require attention to who is doing the naming, who benefits from the stabilisation, and who is being asked to align. Nihilism, in this sense, is not a shrug. It is a refusal to outsource responsibility to metaphysics.

In practical terms, this means treating ethical claims as proposals rather than discoveries, responsibilities rather than revelations, and commitments that must be defended in public rather than secured by ontological guarantee. It means accepting that moral authority is something we negotiate and sustain together, not something we uncover already intact and binding.

Nor is this an argument against local moral projects. Communities can and do organise themselves around shared goods, shared narratives, and shared aspirations. Such projects can be meaningful, motivating, and even life-sustaining. But they are also contingent, temporary, and sustained only through ongoing renegotiation.

Moral coherence achieved locally does not scale automatically, and it does not endure without friction.

What works for a particular group, at a particular moment, under particular conditions, does not thereby acquire universal authority. Moral coherence achieved locally does not scale automatically, and it does not endure without friction. That is not a failure of ethics. It is the cost of plurality and time.

The problem arises only when local moral projects mistake their internal coherence for external legitimacy. When they present themselves not as one way of organising meaning, but as a foundational ontology, a scalable ethical architecture, or a universally binding account of the Good.

At that point, disagreement ceases to register as intelligible difference and becomes moral deficiency. Dissent is redescribed as immaturity. Refusal is framed as lack of formation. And ethics quietly crosses the line from orientation into governance. This critique is aimed precisely at that crossing.

8. Conclusion: A Local Moral Project, Not a Universal Architecture

Taken on its own terms, this ontology is serious, internally coherent, and animated by a genuine concern for moral decay, procedural emptiness, and the hollowness of technocratic governance. It is not frivolous work. It is not cynical work. It is work born of dissatisfaction with thin ethics and a desire to recover meaning, orientation, and responsibility. But that does not make it universal.

What this framework offers is best understood not as a foundational solution to ethics, leadership, or societal becoming, but as a local moral project: a thick, tradition-inflected grammar capable of organising commitment among those already disposed to its metaphysical and ethical premises.

Within such in-groups, it may function well. It can generate shared language, reinforce norms, motivate sacrifice, and provide a sense of direction. It may even feel emancipatory, precisely because it relieves participants of the burden of perpetual moral indeterminacy. That relief is not incidental. It is the primary psychological reward such frameworks offer.

What it cannot do, without remainder, is scale across plural moral landscapes without reintroducing coercion under another name.

The moment the framework encounters agents who do not recognise its metaphysical centre, virtue ceases to orient and begins to adjudicate. Solidarity becomes conditional. Participation becomes aspirational compliance. Flourishing becomes legible only to those who already speak the language.

This is not a failure of goodwill. It is the inevitable consequence of grounding ethics in a substantive vision of the Good rather than in negotiated coexistence under conditions of deep disagreement.

History does not suggest a third option.

Attempts to resolve this by appeal to deeper formation, better leadership, or more refined ontological articulation misunderstand the problem. The obstacle is not insufficient sophistication. It is the impossibility of securing universal normative authority without either emptying ethics of content or enforcing it through power. History does not suggest a third option.

To acknowledge this is not to abandon ethics, nor to retreat into relativism or nihilism-as-apathy. It is to recognise that moral systems are provisional, situated, and sustained through ongoing negotiation rather than metaphysical guarantees. Meaning is made, not discovered intact. And whatever coherence we achieve is fragile, temporary, and bought at the cost of exclusion.

If this ontology were presented as one compelling way of organising moral life among those who freely choose it, there would be little to object to. The trouble begins only when it is asked to do more than it can bear: to ground, to bind, to scale, and to endure without remainder. That expectation is not just ambitious. It is precisely the illusion that has undone every such project before.

9. Closing: Admirable Aspirations, Ancient Failure Modes

The desire animating this ontology is admirable. So were many before it. Projects of moral renewal rarely fail because their intentions are corrupt. They fail because they underestimate three forces that never go away: semantic drift, human difference, and the stubborn refusal of people to remain aligned over time without someone being marginalised, disciplined, or expelled. What works at Time-nought rarely survives Time-one.

At the outset, shared language feels like shared purpose. Participation feels voluntary. Solidarity feels mutual. But as contexts shift, meanings stretch, and pressures accumulate, the system must either loosen its grip or tighten it. History suggests it almost always chooses the latter, while continuing to speak the language of the former.

This framework may function well as an in-group grammar. It may even be nourishing there.

This framework may function well as an in-group grammar. It may even be nourishing there. Within aligned communities, it can generate coherence, motivation, and a genuine sense of ethical direction. That should not be dismissed.

But once pressed beyond its boundaries, it exhibits the same failure modes we have seen for centuries: moral centres that require constant maintenance, virtues that drift and must be reinterpreted, participation that quietly becomes compliance, and solidarity that depends on exclusion to remain intact. The difference here is not structure, but style.

What we are offered is not a new solution to ethics, leadership, or social order, but a familiar answer articulated with contemporary sophistication and excellent footnotes. That does not make it unserious. It makes it recognisable.

And recognition, in this case, means seeing an old pattern dressed in new language: a moral centre that promises orientation while quietly reintroducing authority, a vision that speaks the grammar of participation while relying on alignment to survive.

The aspiration is admirable. The failure modes are ancient. And no amount of metaphysical refinement has ever abolished them.