I remember a conversation with classmates in university about a mutual friend who didn’t get into graduate school. One classmate said very naturally: “He just didn’t work hard enough.”

That statement seemed completely reasonable at the time. Since we got in, we thought: we got in because we worked hard enough. He didn’t get in because he didn’t work hard enough. Such a clear cause-and-effect relationship.

Twenty years later, I know how arrogant that statement was.

Not because that friend ended up doing well—I actually don’t know how he turned out. But because I finally realized: besides hard work, there were a hundred factors I couldn’t see at the time that enabled me to get in. I was born into a family that valued education, I had books to read from childhood, my health was never interrupted by illness during my studies, my economic situation allowed me to prepare full-time without needing to work.

None of these were things I “earned.” They were luck.

The Winner’s Illusion

Sandel calls this phenomenon the “winner’s illusion” in “The Tyranny of Merit.”

The meritocratic narrative goes like this: society is fair, opportunities are open. As long as you’re smart enough and work hard enough, you can succeed. So successful people succeed because they deserve it. Failed people fail because they’re not good enough.

This narrative has two fatal problems.

First, it severely underestimates the role of luck and structure. Which country and family you’re born into, whether you have access to good education, your gender, race, health condition—these factors have far greater impact on your life trajectory than your personal “effort.” But meritocracy encourages you to ignore these factors and believe everything is self-earned.

Second, and more toxic: it makes winners arrogant and losers blame themselves.

Winners think: “My success is what I deserve.” So they lack empathy for losers—you failed? That’s your problem, not my responsibility. Losers think: “My failure is what I deserve.” So they don’t question the system, only themselves—I’m not good enough, didn’t work hard enough, not smart enough.

This dual effect is the root of social division.

Taiwan’s Version of Meritocracy

Taiwan is a heavy believer in meritocracy.

We have an entire social ladder built around “academic advancement”: elementary students compete for middle school, middle schoolers for high school, high schoolers for university, university students for graduate school. Each level has an exam, exam scores determine which school you enter, the school’s reputation determines what job you can find, the job’s salary determines your social position.

This path seems fair—everyone takes the same test, highest scores advance. But “the same test” obscures the fact that people sitting in the exam room brought completely different starting lines.

Children in Taipei can attend cram schools, hire tutors, buy reference books. Rural children might need to help with farm work when they get home. Economically well-off families can let children focus only on studying; children from financially struggling families might start working part-time in high school.

Then we look at exam results and say: “See, fair competition, the most capable people emerged.”

This isn’t fairness. This is inequality wrapped in the cloak of fairness.

The Startup World’s Merit Myth

I see the same logic in startup circles, just with different packaging.

“Hard work leads to success” becomes “as long as you have enough execution ability, vision, and willingness to sacrifice, you can make your company succeed.”

I once believed this narrative myself. In the early days of entrepreneurship, I was indeed very hardworking—working over ten hours daily, thinking about the company on weekends, putting health and family second. The company survived, and I thought: it was my hard work that kept it alive.

But honestly speaking, among the reasons the company survived, “right timing” and “good luck” probably account for a larger proportion than I’m willing to admit. I entered a growing market at the right time, I met several clients willing to give opportunities, I had team members stronger than me who held things together at critical moments.

Attributing these to “my hard work” is like standing on a wave crest saying “I made the water rise.”

And those failed entrepreneurs? They might have worked as hard as me, even harder. But their timing was slightly off, their luck was slightly worse, or they lacked a key person at a crucial moment. The meritocratic narrative would say: “They failed, something must not have been good enough.” But the reality might simply be: the dice didn’t land on the right side.

Young Generation’s Unfair Pressure

Let me focus on the young generation.

In Taiwan, the pressure young people bear is structural, not personal.

Housing prices have risen to levels that salaries can’t catch up with. Good job opportunities are increasingly concentrated in a few fields and among a few people. The return on investment for education is declining—you spend four or even six years earning a degree, and the starting salary might be similar to what your parents’ generation earned without college.

But the meritocratic narrative tells them: “As long as you work hard enough, you can succeed.” So when they struggle within this structure, they don’t question the structure—they question themselves.

“I’m not working hard enough.” “I chose the wrong major.” “I’m not capable enough.”

This is meritocracy’s most cruel aspect. It turns structural problems into personal guilt. In “Moral Person, Immoral Society,” I discussed Niebuhr’s perspective: individuals can be moral, but social structures can be immoral. Blaming individuals for outcomes produced by immoral structures is a form of systemic injustice.

Faith Perspective: Grace vs. Merit

As someone with theological training background, I see a very familiar theme in Sandel’s argument.

Christian theology has a core concept called “grace”—your existence, your abilities, your opportunities are not “earned” by you, but “given” to you. You are a recipient, not a self-achiever.

This concept directly conflicts with meritocracy. Meritocracy says: you are the architect of your own destiny. Grace says: you didn’t build the foundation you stand on.

I’m not saying everyone needs to believe in Christianity to understand this point. But I think the concept of “grace”—acknowledging that much in our lives wasn’t earned by ourselves—is an important antidote to elite arrogance.

When you acknowledge that your success contains a large component of luck and given opportunities, it becomes very difficult to tell failures “it’s your own problem.” You begin to feel: since I’ve received so much, what responsibility do I have to society?

Redefining Contribution

Sandel’s solution isn’t to overthrow meritocracy, but to redefine “contribution.”

A nurse caring for the elderly, a worker maintaining roads, a convenience store clerk working night shifts, a farmer growing crops—their contributions to society are no less than a Wall Street analyst’s. But meritocracy’s salary structure tells you: analysts earn millions annually, nurses earn forty thousand monthly. This pay gap implies a message: your work isn’t important enough.

The real way forward isn’t making everyone compete for National Taiwan University, start businesses, or chase positions at the pyramid’s peak. It’s building a society where every job is respected—not just verbal respect, but genuine respect in salary, institutional, and cultural terms.

This goal sounds distant. But its starting point is close: every person who realizes their success isn’t entirely self-earned is the beginning of change.

Elite arrogance isn’t a personal problem, it’s a systemic problem. But systemic change requires individuals to first let go of arrogance. Starting from acknowledging luck’s role. Starting from respecting different forms of contribution. Starting from stopping telling young people “you just don’t work hard enough.”