Wherever one observes the transformation of society into one where access to economic opportunity is increasingly contingent upon credentials, one sees the unmistakable hallmark of state interference with the spontaneous order of the market. The moment violence interposes itself between man and his capacity to labor, trade, and create, he no longer lives in a market but under a system of privilege. Protection, in the statist sense, is not about safeguarding the individual; it is about disabling him.
Take the case of a man offering surgical services: if he proves himself competent—through outcomes, patient satisfaction, and reputation—that is the only proof the market needs. The consumer, being sovereign, chooses. The incompetent surgeon, if he deceives or harms, will face consequences: lawsuits, loss of reputation, loss of patronage. He cannot hide behind a license, a certificate, or liberty itself. A bad actor is exposed and removed, not by violence, but by consequence.
Yet, under a statist regime, incompetence is protected by the very credentials meant to eliminate it. The man with a degree may fail again and again, but because he is “authorized,” the individual is forced to accept him. He has no other choice. The state not only prohibits the unlicensed and uncredentialed from attempting to serve others based on merit; it grants legal immunity to “certain” producers whose products cause harm, so long as they are politically favored. Meanwhile, the brilliant unlicensed man and his product are prohibited—not only from proving their worth, but from offering value they have already demonstrated.
What enabled the era of broad-based prosperity in the Western world was not education, state planning, or redistribution; it was the relative freedom of the market, the low barriers to entry, and the ability of the average man to engage in voluntary exchange without too much permission. The individual, whether worker or small entrepreneur, could still rise by serving others. He did not require credentials, permission, connections or institutional ties. He needed only to work, produce, and offer his services honestly and efficiently.
The result was not equality of outcome, but equality of opportunity in a relative, statist sense: a lingering presence of market entry. The dockhand and the clerk could still improve their lot—not because the system was free, but because its restraints had not yet fully hardened. What existed was not liberty, but a loosened statist order where some freedom to act still remained. And within that space, men could rise, not through redistribution but through whatever sliver of opportunity to serve and produce had not yet been destroyed.
But, as that space continued to shrink, the meaning of success shifted. Man turned to credentials—not because he believed in them, nor because they held any market value, but because nothing else remained. He sensed the walls closing in and grasped for any available option to set himself apart: another degree, a certification, a title—anything that might give him a slight edge in a field now governed not by competition but by exclusion. This is how credentialism became widespread: not as a mark of rising competence, but as the last resort of men denied the freedom to act.
The state first destroyed opportunity, then turned and declared, “Everyone has the right to education!” A consolation prize for the loss of liberty. His degree—once thought to be a ladder—is now a uniform. And no matter how widely distributed, it means nothing in a world where the activities it once gave access to have been destroyed.
The tragedy is that these efforts lead not to liberation, but to deeper entanglement. The more one tries to climb within the decaying statist system, the more dependent one becomes on it. No one is permitted to act, educated or not.
