Why we need fewer heroes
When a society, an institution, or even a piece of software continually produces heroes, it offers clear evidence of a broken architecture.
Heroism is an artifact of bad design. When a society, an institution, or even a piece of software continually produces heroes, it offers clear evidence of a broken architecture. Such systems force individuals to compensate for their failures.
We see this in the firefighter battling blazes in a city built to burn, the nurse going above and beyond in a gutted healthcare system, and the “power user” who masters every workaround for an application that was never designed to serve them.
Each is paying off the moral debt of a system that refuses to care by design. In a truly humane world, survival would not require heroism.
Heroism is Moral Debt
Heroism is the emotional interest we are forced to pay on technical and moral negligence. It arises when structures collapse, and individuals must absorb the load that institutions were meant to bear. We mistake this absorption for virtue because it is comforting to believe that individual courage can fix what collective competence will not.
“…it is comforting to believe that individual courage can fix what collective competence will not.”
This narrative, however, is a dangerous illusion. Heroism is fundamentally a symptom of systemic failure. Every time we celebrate someone for “holding the line,” we implicitly confirm that the line was designed to break.
The more a system praises its heroes, the less it intends to change, because heroism functions as a moral bailout. It allows a defective structure to persist by reframing the necessary act of repair as a noble display of character.
The Architecture of Dependence
We do not just romanticize heroes; we manufacture them through systems optimized for efficiency above all else. Within these frameworks, fragility is a built-in feature. Hospitals run on impossible nurse-to-patient ratios and call it efficiency. Workplaces champion burnout and call it dedication. Software companies rely on unpaid community moderators and testers to fix their products and call it engagement.
When people step in to patch these gaps, our celebration of their devotion becomes a powerful misdirection. It shifts the focus from flawed design to personal sacrifice. This thinking allows us to thank the nurse, distracting from the need to properly fund the hospital ward. We praise the teacher, which lets us avoid hiring adequate support staff. We mythologize the whistleblower, which helps us forget to protect the next one.
Heroism becomes a convenient narrative that converts institutional failure into a story of individual triumph.
Is heroism a tool of control?
Beyond masking failure, the hero narrative also serves to discipline the rest of us. It teaches that goodness is proven through suffering and that exhaustion is the ultimate evidence of care. It conditions us to accept compliance as a moral identity, urging us to be the one who endures without complaint.
Corporations call this “ownership.”
Governments call it “civic duty.”
Religions call it “sacrifice.”
Each framework converts systemic strain into personal meaning so that we will not question why the strain is required in the first place. This process makes pain feel noble, which discourages any attempt to negotiate better conditions.
A society that worships heroes is one that plans to break its citizens and expects applause when they refuse to stay broken.
The hero’s journey has been industrialized.
Martyrdom has a marketplace now. It is a predictable, profitable template that drives Hollywood franchises, startup manifestos, and influencer brands. In this market, pain becomes a plot point, suffering is sold as authenticity, and recovery is repackaged as content. Every blockbuster reboot sells redemption, and every burnout memoir becomes a business model.
Our culture has come to treat breakdown as a rite of passage for legitimacy.
The hero’s journey has become the marketing department of collapse. It promises individual transcendence in situations where we should be demanding collective redesign. It sells a story of personal resilience when the real need is for resilient systems.
The alternative to a culture of heroism is humane design.
The solution is to build systems that bear their own weight, where safety, care, and competence are treated as normal, expected functions. We need institutions that are designed to metabolize stress instead of exporting it onto the people they are supposed to serve.
A society’s greatness is measured by how few heroes it requires. A well-built world would make courage a beautiful, chosen act, free from the burden of necessity.
When no one is forced to be a hero just to live with dignity, we will finally have earned the right to celebrate those who consciously choose to become one.