In certain corners of politics and punditry, a curious thesis has been gaining ground: that our societies are teetering on the brink because of an “oversupply of elite.” Too many graduates, too many experts, too many laptop-class professionals sipping ethically sourced coffee while redesigning the world from their glass towers.

It’s a neat little idea. Trouble is, it’s also largely nonsense.

This article unpacks the claim, considers its strongest arguments, and then gives it the send-off it deserves — ideally with a clipboard and a gentle push down the escalator of wishful thinking.

Who exactly are these ’elites'?

Before throwing darts, it’s useful to define the dartboard.

In this debate, ‘elite’ typically refers to a broad but socially specific class of highly educated professionals who exert outsized influence over economic, political, or cultural life. They include academics, senior civil servants, creative-class types such as tech founders and management consultants — essentially anyone paid more for thinking than doing, often from within high-rise buildings with good climate control and keycard access.

Political and media elites fall under this banner too — those who shape policy or public opinion, sometimes accused of living in an echo chamber sealed off from the concerns of the rest. When populists rail against “the Hague” or “Brussels,” they are invoking this caste of decision-makers and commentators, many of whom appear to have lost contact with lived experience outside the Randstad, Westminster, or the 7th arrondissement.

Finally, there’s the knowledge class — professionals in finance, tech, or high-end services, whose technical roles increasingly drive the modern economy. Their decisions, often executed via algorithm or boardroom fiat, affect millions, while their social responsibilities appear… optional, at best.

In short, when critics complain of an “elite surplus,” they mean a ruling class that feels economically bulletproof, culturally self-referential, and politically evasive. A fair description — if not always an accurate diagnosis.

The destabilisation thesis, at its strongest

To take the claim seriously — as we should, if only to dismantle it properly — let’s consider its strongest arguments. The ‘too many elites’ thesis rests on three main pillars: economic disconnection, cultural estrangement, and political fallout.

The first argument centres on inequality. As societies become more digitised and globalised, the benefits have not been evenly shared. The professional classes have surfed the wave, enjoying higher wages, mobility, and job security. Meanwhile, those in routine or manual work have faced deindustrialisation, wage stagnation, and increasing precarity. In France, the gilets jaunes protests were not about fuel tax alone — they were a backlash against a system perceived to reward Parisians with degrees while ignoring rural and peri-urban workers. This creates a lopsided economy where prosperity clusters around elite professions, leaving swathes of the population to compete over shrinking scraps.

Culturally, the thesis points to a widening values gap. Educated elites often espouse cosmopolitan, progressive worldviews, embracing diversity, environmentalism, and social inclusion. These values are not inherently wrong — far from it — but they often clash with more localised, conservative, or communitarian perspectives held by those outside the elite bubble. In the Netherlands, tensions around migration and identity are often framed by voters as a pushback against the cultural dominance of Randstad-based policy-makers and media figures. When national discourse ignores or mocks these perspectives, resentment festers.

Politically, the fallout is unmistakable. Across Europe, populist parties and movements have capitalised on anti-elite sentiment. Geert Wilders’ PVV surged in the 2023 Dutch elections on a platform aimed squarely at ‘Haagse regenten’, while in Italy, Giorgia Meloni’s rise was lubricated by a steady stream of anti-Brussels rhetoric. In Hungary, Viktor Orbán has mastered the game: presenting himself as the champion of national sovereignty against ‘globalist elites’, even as he consolidates his own hold over universities, media, and the courts. Whether the elites in question are Eurocrats, virologists, or climate scientists, the populist message is consistent: they rule, we pay.

Where this theory goes wrong

For all its emotional pull, the ‘too many elites’ theory begins to unravel under closer inspection. The diagnosis is too tidy; the world, regrettably, is not.

To begin with, economic inequality is real — but it’s not the fault of elites per se. It’s the product of structural forces: tax policy that favours capital over labour, deregulated markets, and global supply chains that erode bargaining power. The financialisation of everything — from housing to healthcare — has benefited the asset-owning classes, certainly, but this is the result of laws and incentives crafted over decades. In the EU, tax competition between member states — not elitist plotting — has allowed multinationals to game the system. Blaming graduates for structural imbalances is a bit like blaming chefs for obesity: misdirected, and not terribly helpful.

On the cultural front, the idea that elites are somehow disconnected from “real life” is a seductive myth. It’s true that elite institutions sometimes promote values unfamiliar or unwelcome in more traditional communities. But much of this so-called elite culture is widely shared. In Germany, where regional pride is fierce, Bavarians and Berliners may eye each other suspiciously — but both still watch Tatort. The divide is increasingly one of narrative framing, not actual experience.

Politically, the theory suffers from selective amnesia. Yes, populist movements have surged by railing against technocrats. But when in power, they often centralise authority, hollow out oversight, and suppress dissent. In Poland, PiS’s judiciary reforms weren’t a correction to elite excess — they were a power grab. The elites they replaced — central bankers, civil jurists, medical experts — may not be exciting, but they are functional. Without them, we get chaos in a better suit.

Why the myth persists: comfort in blame

So if the thesis is so flawed, why has it taken hold?

Part of the appeal lies in its simplicity. Complex systemic issues — automation, demographic shifts, housing crises — defy easy solutions. Blaming a recognisable group offers a cathartic shortcut. It simplifies politics into morality: elites are cast as arrogant, out of touch, and self-serving; the people as virtuous victims. It’s David versus Goliath, scaled for social media.

There’s also a psychological balm in blaming elites. It creates a sense of regained agency. If the root of our woes is a class of aloof know-it-alls, then removing them — or at least ignoring them — becomes an act of justice. It turns frustration into a mission.

Finally, there’s the political utility. Anti-elite rhetoric is a cheap form of populist legitimacy. Leaders like Farage, Wilders, or Baudet — all of them educated, well-spoken, and deeply enmeshed in the system — gain traction by cosplaying as outsiders. In the EU Parliament, it’s not uncommon to see nationalist MEPs rail against the institution before quietly collecting their allowances. The irony is rarely acknowledged. But it works, especially when institutions falter or when elite failures — the euro crisis, the COVID response, Afghanistan — are still fresh in public memory.

In essence, the myth persists not because it’s accurate, but because it’s useful. For politicians, pundits, and voters alike.

Historical context: elites as engines of progress

There’s also a danger in forgetting what elites are actually for.

Much of Europe’s stability and prosperity since 1945 has come from elite design. The European Coal and Steel Community — hardly a spontaneous mass movement — became the EU, an imperfect but peace-preserving project. Economists, jurists, bureaucrats, and planners have crafted frameworks that lifted millions from poverty and prevented war on a previously routine scale.

The Dutch welfare state, with its strong social housing and healthcare systems, was built by planners and civil servants — not talk show panels. Germany’s post-war Soziale Marktwirtschaft wasn’t forged in populist fire but in technocratic consensus. Even mRNA vaccines, the toast of recent pandemic strategy, emerged from elite academic and scientific ecosystems.

The idea that expertise is a problem, rather than a resource, is not just inaccurate. It’s dangerous.

So… too many elites?

Not exactly. If anything, what we suffer from is too little democratic embedding of elite power. It’s not that society has too many educated people — we probably have too few. It’s that credentials have become a stand-in for moral authority, and technocratic decisions are often made without the legitimacy of public debate.

Knowledge, by itself, is not a problem. Detached knowledge is. A society that outsources governance to its think tanks and consultancies, without mechanisms for scrutiny or redress, isn’t suffering from an elite surplus — it’s suffering from a deficit of democracy.

The solution isn’t to torch the universities or retire the experts. It’s to re-root them in public service and democratic accountability.

Conclusion: it’s not elites, it’s unaccountable power

The ‘oversupply of elite’ thesis is a comforting fiction for a disorienting age. It gives the appearance of analysis while offering only scapegoating. Real social and economic crises are reduced to a single, convenient villain. But this caricature conceals more than it reveals.

The problem isn’t that too many people know too much. It’s that the systems meant to distribute power, wealth, and voice have become lopsided. Elites aren’t the enemy. Power without accountability is.

Blaming elites for everything is like blaming gravity for falling down the stairs. The problem isn’t the force — it’s the lack of handrails.