Empowerment

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In which the curmudgeonly old sod puts the world to rights.
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Less in the sense of touchy-feely yogababble about how we should all be actualised to be the best versions of ourselves, but in the sense of having the autonomy and authority to make pragmatic decisions to move an organisation on.

In any commercial collective, there is an enduring tussle between the (sadly) resistible force of subject matter expertise — wielded limply by those who know what they are doing, understand the proximate ramifications of their actions and derive professional pride and no small amount of job satisfaction from the very act of exercising small nuggets of authority — and the hardly moveable object of policy, process, precedent and sclerotic infrastructure that trusts no such executive agent further than she can be thrown, and is stout in the resistance of any kind of risk, however theoretical or academic.

Those two forces — forces of substance and form — wreslte in any organisation; the bigger and older it is the more likely young executive is to lose. She may want little more than the opportunity to stand on the deck, in the sun, blowing wistfully into the sail, that by itself will vouchsafe ineffable meaning in her grim working life but it will be denied her.


See also