In the 2019 UK general election, the Labour Party's manifesto included a pledge to nationalise BT's broadband infrastructure and provide free broadband to every household in Britain. The policy was costed at around £20 billion. It was never seriously expected to be implemented. Everyone involved in its production knew that. The question isn't whether it was a lie, it's whether the concept of lying applies to a document that operates in a different register of truth entirely.
A political manifesto is a genre of writing. Like all genres, it has conventions, and one of those conventions is that the promises it contains are aspirational rather than contractual. Voters know this. Politicians know this. Journalists covering manifestos know this. The annual ritual of publishing detailed policy costings and then treating the resulting document as a binding commitment is a piece of collective theatre that everyone in the room has agreed to perform.
Why the Fiction Exists
The interesting question is not why politicians make promises they can't keep. It's why the system is arranged so that they have to. The answer is that manifestos serve a function that has nothing to do with their stated content. They are not primarily policy documents. They are identity documents, statements about what a party values, who it's for, what kind of world it wants to be associated with. The broadband pledge was not a concrete infrastructure plan. It was a signal that the Labour Party took the idea of public ownership seriously and thought internet access was a public good. That signal might be true even if the specific pledge was never intended to be implemented.
This is not nothing. Identity signalling is how voters navigate an information environment where detailed policy analysis is beyond the capacity of most people with jobs and families. You vote for the party whose values you trust, not the party whose Computable General Equilibrium model you find most persuasive. Manifestos are a mechanism for communicating values under conditions of radical simplification.
The Cost of the Pretence
The problem with the collective fiction is that it has real costs. When promises aren't kept, even promises that everyone tacitly understood were aspirational, the formal breach matters. "They said they'd do X and then didn't" is a genuinely powerful argument, even when the original X was wildly optimistic or context-dependent. Politicians are held to the literal text of documents they wrote in opposition, under different economic conditions, without knowledge of the crises they would inherit. And they almost always fall short, which feeds a generalised cynicism that eventually extends to promises that were never fiction at all.
There is also a selection effect. Parties that make dramatic manifesto promises attract attention and enthusiasm. Parties that make modest, carefully costed, hedged commitments look uninspiring and lose. The incentive structure rewards fiction. This means the manifestos get more ambitious over time, the gap between promise and delivery widens, and the cynicism deepens, which requires even more ambitious promises to break through the noise.
A More Honest Alternative
There is a version of electoral communication that would work better: explicit acknowledgement of what is a value commitment and what is a concrete pledge, with the latter carrying real accountability. "We believe the internet should be publicly owned" is a statement that can be honestly maintained over time. "We will nationalise BT within 18 months at this precise cost" is one that can't, under most conditions that might actually obtain.
No major party has adopted this approach, partly because honesty about uncertainty is not a winning electoral strategy when the opponent is offering certainty-shaped fiction in the competing manifesto.
Manifestos are the documents we collectively pretend to believe in order to have the conversation we've decided to have about governance, and the agreement not to notice this is the most durable political consensus of the modern era.
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