Once, leadership was about vision, integrity, and public service. Today, it’s about ring lights, drone shots, and trending hashtags. In this hyper-curated political era, a leader is no longer measured by the policies they pass but by the number of likes they collect, the cinematography of their rice field visits, and how emotionally they hug a stray kitten during a press conference or how many angles were used while hugging a goat in the middle of a flood. Modern populists don’t need a solid work plan—what matters is a strong mood board. Policy announcements have morphed into motivational videos set to Coldplay tracks. Political campaigns? Now, it is replaced by TikTok duets with street food vendors. And let’s not forget the ever-vigilant buzzers: spinning mistakes into “relatable human moments” and aggressively calling out netizens deemed ‘anti-progress.’
Gone are the days when every leader had an aide carrying folders—now, they carry tripods. A public official’s closest team is no longer strategists or legal experts, but cameramen, editors, and creative directors.
Wherever they go—whether visiting markets, attending harvest festivals, or acting shocked at chilli prices—there’s a minimum of four cameras capturing every angle: close-up, slow motion, cinematic drone, and, of course, a handheld vlog cam. The public must see what a ‘down-to-earth’ leader looks like—from the perfect left-angle shot, with natural lighting and a subtle bokeh effect.
Every action now requires footage: Stepping out of the car = footage. Shaking hands with vendors = footage. Smiling down at a child = footage with a sentimental piano soundtrack. Even scolding staff? That needs a RAW version for the behind-the-scenes cut.
If it’s not filmed, it didn’t happen. Because in this era, real work isn’t the priority—work that looks real is. Remember, engagement metrics matter more than budget realisation.
As political scientists Sergei Guriev and Daniel Treisman argue in their 2022 book Spin Dictators: The Changing Face of Tyranny in the 21st Century (Princeton University Press), modern autocrats don’t rule through overt repression like their 20th-century predecessors. Instead, they “flood people with distractions” and perfect the art of illusion. They don’t silence critics with prison bars; they drown them in algorithm-approved content—feel-good clips, sentimental vlogs, and emotionally charged campaign music videos. “Today’s strongmen understand that repression is expensive and dangerous. Better to look democratic and act autocratic,” Guriev and Treisman write.
In this system, public relations replaces public service. The leader doesn’t need to convince the electorate with ideas—they need to perform relatability. A staged moment of empathy, captured in 4K with soft lighting and subtle background music, carries more political weight than a fiscal reform ever could. These are not dictators in the old-fashioned sense—they are content creators with executive power.
Throughout modern history, the world has experienced several waves in which dictatorships and authoritarian regimes rose to dominate global politics. The 20th century, particularly between the 1920s and 1970s, is widely considered the peak era of dictatorial power. This period saw the emergence of regimes where leaders held unchecked power, often using violence, propaganda, and fear to consolidate control over their nations.
In the interwar period, leaders such as Benito Mussolini in Italy and Adolf Hitler in Germany established fascist dictatorships that glorified nationalism, militarism, and absolute leadership. Around the same time, Joseph Stalin transformed the Soviet Union into a totalitarian state where dissent was brutally crushed. These leaders exemplified the archetypal "strongman" ruler, and their regimes were characterized by the suppression of civil liberties, a lack of political pluralism, and often, mass violence.
Following World War II, the Cold War fueled the spread of authoritarian regimes, especially in the developing world. In Latin America, military dictatorships took control in countries like Argentina, Brazil, and Chile, often with the backing of global superpowers seeking ideological influence. In Africa, many newly independent nations fell under authoritarian rule as post-colonial leaders turned to military might or one-party systems to govern. Asia witnessed similar trends, with Mao Zedong’s China and Suharto’s Indonesia maintaining strict control through propaganda and repression. Even as the world was increasingly embracing democratic ideals, large swaths of the global population lived under authoritarian or dictatorial systems.
To understand how these regimes functioned and persisted, several scholars have produced influential works. In “The Dictator’s Handbook” (2011), Bruce Bueno de Mesquita and Alastair Smith reveal how dictators maintain power through a careful balance of fear, loyalty, and resource control. Meanwhile, Barbara Geddes’ “How Dictatorships Work” (2018) provides a typology of authoritarian regimes, exploring how institutions and elite coalitions sustain these systems. These works collectively show that dictatorships are not chaotic anomalies but calculated structures designed to last.
In “The Dictator’s Handbook: Why Bad Behavior is Almost Always Good Politics” (2011, PublicAffairs), authors Bruce Bueno de Mesquita and Alastair Smith present a strikingly pragmatic and cynical theory of political power. Published by PublicAffairs, the book argues that dictators (and in fact, all leaders, democratic or otherwise) maintain power not through ideology or moral leadership, but by mastering the "rules to rule." At the heart of their argument is a cold political truth: leaders survive by keeping a small group of key supporters happy—and everyone else just content or afraid enough not to rebel.
Dictators, according to the authors, rely on three crucial elements:
- Fear: Dictators maintain power by ensuring that any threat of rebellion, dissent, or opposition is suppressed quickly and often violently. This creates a climate of fear that discourages both elite defections and popular uprisings. The fear doesn’t need to be constant, but it must be credible—people must believe that challenging the regime comes with real, painful consequences.
- Loyalty: Loyalty is secured not through love or charisma, but by rewarding the small group of elites—what the authors call the "winning coalition"—who are essential to keeping the ruler in power. These may include military leaders, key business figures, or political insiders. As long as these people continue to benefit personally—through money, power, or protection—they have every reason to keep the dictator in place.
- Resource Control: Dictators must control state resources, especially money, natural resources, and access to public services. These resources are used strategically—rewarding loyalists, punishing enemies, and managing the broader population through selective incentives. For example, public goods like roads or healthcare are often denied to areas that oppose the regime and pumped into regions that demonstrate support.
One of the book’s most memorable lessons is that “good policy is often bad politics, and bad policy is often good politics”—because dictators don’t need to serve the public; they only need to serve the people who keep them in power. A dictator might let hospitals decay or infrastructure crumble if it means having more cash to funnel to loyal generals or party bosses.
Ultimately, The Dictator’s Handbook reframes leadership as a game of survival, not service. It shows that authoritarian leaders endure not because people love them, but because they’ve mastered the art of balancing threats, incentives, and control over the few people who truly matter. And when those few decide to abandon ship? That’s usually when the regime collapses.
In How Dictatorships Work: Power, Personalization, and Collapse (2018), Barbara Geddes, along with Joseph Wright and Erica Frantz, makes a compelling argument: authoritarian regimes are not random acts of chaos or pure brute force, but are instead well-designed political systems, built to last and protect those in power.
Geddes emphasises that dictatorships, much like democracies, are governed by institutions—only the purpose of those institutions differs. Rather than ensuring public accountability, these institutions exist to stabilise elite coalitions, suppress dissent, and manage power struggles within the regime. In other words, dictators build systems that can distribute resources, monitor loyalty, and handle betrayal without bringing the whole regime down.
The book outlines three core types of authoritarian rule: military regimes, single-party regimes, and personalist regimes. Each has its own strengths and weaknesses, with military regimes being relatively short-lived because generals often prefer to protect their institution over clinging to power. Single-party regimes, like the Chinese Communist Party, tend to be the most durable, thanks to deeply embedded institutional structures that allow them to manage elite careers and reward loyalty. Personalist regimes, on the other hand, center power around a single charismatic leader and are often the most fragile, as they rely heavily on fear and patronage but lack internal checks and balances.
Importantly, Geddes and her co-authors highlight that dictatorships use institutions not to democratize but to survive. Fake parliaments, rigged elections, and “yes-men” cabinets are not just symbolic. They are tools to test loyalty, identify threats, and provide limited outlets for political ambition—all while maintaining the illusion of legitimacy.
These regimes are also deeply reliant on elite coalitions. A dictator cannot rule alone. He must share spoils with generals, party bosses, or business oligarchs. As long as this group—what Geddes calls the "winning coalition"—feels well-fed and secure, the regime remains stable. But if this coalition fractures due to economic crises, mismanagement, or power grabs, it can collapse rapidly.
Ultimately, How Dictatorships Work challenges the simplistic view that authoritarianism is chaotic or doomed to fail quickly. On the contrary, these regimes are rational, strategic, and adaptive, often surviving longer than expected because they are deliberately structured to withstand both internal and external threats.
Geddes and her co-authors don’t just explain how authoritarian regimes are built—they also explore how they fall. Contrary to Hollywood-style revolutions, dictatorships don’t usually collapse because of sudden uprisings or external invasion. Instead, they tend to implode from within, through elite betrayal, economic failure, or mismanagement of succession. The authors argue that the most fragile regimes are personalist dictatorships, where power is concentrated in one leader who surrounds himself with yes-men. These regimes may appear strong, but they lack institutional resilience. When the leader dies, is overthrown, or makes a major mistake, there are few mechanisms to transfer power peacefully. Think of it like a Jenga tower—remove the wrong piece, and the whole thing crashes.
In contrast, single-party regimes are often more robust because they have internal structures—like party congresses or cadre promotions—that can handle leadership change and mediate elite tensions. Military regimes, on the other hand, tend to exit power more peacefully, as the military often wants to preserve its institutional integrity rather than be dragged into endless political games.
One of the most powerful takeaways from the book is this: dictatorships last until they don’t—and the timing of collapse is extremely difficult to predict. What may seem like a stable regime can unravel quickly when internal loyalty breaks down or when the dictator makes a reckless move, such as grooming a weak successor or trying to centralize too much power.
But perhaps most sobering is the idea that even after collapse, what comes next isn’t always democracy. Many failed dictatorships are replaced by new authoritarian regimes, often under a different name or face. It’s a grim cycle, unless civil society, institutions, and international pressure align to support real democratic transition.
However, it’s important to note that dictatorship and authoritarianism are not exactly the same. A dictatorship refers specifically to a political system dominated by one individual who holds absolute power, often ruling through coercion. In contrast, authoritarianism is a broader term that describes any system in which political freedoms are severely restricted, and power is concentrated in the hands of a single ruler, military group, or political elite. Therefore, all dictatorships are authoritarian, but not all authoritarian regimes are run by a single dictator. For instance, a military junta or one-party regime might not have a singular figurehead but still operate with authoritarian principles.
Although the classical era of dictatorships began to wane after the Cold War, with many authoritarian regimes collapsing or transitioning toward democracy, recent years have seen a resurgence of modern authoritarianism. Unlike their 20th-century counterparts, today’s authoritarian leaders often operate through manipulation of media, control of information, and election rigging, rather than overt military force. These are what Sergei Guriev and Daniel Treisman call “spin dictators” in their 2022 book “Spin Dictators: The Changing Face of Tyranny in the 21st Century.” According to them, modern autocrats prefer to shape public perception and project an image of democracy, while quietly undermining it from within.
In summary, the height of global dictatorship occurred during the mid-20th century, when authoritarian regimes were often defined by visible coercion and violence. Although the Cold War’s end brought a wave of democratization, authoritarianism never disappeared—it simply evolved, becoming more subtle and media-savvy. Understanding this transformation is critical in recognizing the threats posed by contemporary authoritarianism, which may not come in the form of jackboots and secret police, but rather through polished speeches, social media campaigns, and tightly controlled narratives.
So, welcome to the golden age of performative leadership, where the currency is clicks, and the campaign trail is paved with filters. If you're feeling confused about where your tax money went, don’t worry—there's probably a beautifully edited Instagram Reel to explain it.
Everywhere he goes, they follow: four cameramen, one drone operator, a lighting crew, and maybe a guy whose only job is to yell, “Bro, that was epic!” after every take.
This is not a film set. This is governance in the age of spin dictatorship.
As Guriev and Treisman explain in Spin Dictators, the modern strongman doesn’t need tanks or torture chambers to dominate—he needs followers, both in the literal and digital sense. Why rule by fear when you can rule by 4K charisma and high engagement rates?
“Today’s authoritarian leader is part celebrity, part therapist, part life coach.”
Gone are the days of fiery speeches from balconies. Today’s populist leader connects by squatting at eye level with the people, ideally while holding a plate of street food, just as a well-timed gust of wind ruffles their hair in slow motion. The cameramen are there not to document reality—but to construct it.
And why not? As the authors note, it’s not about silencing all dissent anymore. It’s about disorienting the audience.
“The aim is not so much to convince as to confuse.”
When there’s too much content, too many conflicting narratives, and too many teary video testimonials, citizens stop trying to understand what’s really going on. The strategy isn’t to win the debate—it’s to blur the frame.
In this climate, the cameraman becomes more powerful than the auditor. The videographer, more vital than the policy analyst. Spin dictators invest in storytelling, not statecraft. Their press conferences are more carefully edited than independent documentaries.
But don’t be fooled—this is not incompetence. It’s an art form. “Spin dictators are illusionists. They maintain the trappings of democracy while hollowing it out.”
Elections still happen. Opposition still speaks. The press still prints. But it all takes place in a fog of manipulation, orchestrated by the leader’s media ecosystem. It's democratic theater—just with better lighting and background music.
In the age of spin, no populist leader rules alone. They march with a loyal army—not of soldiers, but of accounts, hashtags, and hot takes.
Welcome to the world of buzzers, troll farms, and keyboard warriors, where the battlefield is your comment section and the weapons are memes, misleading infographics, and deeply suspicious threads starting with: “Guys, I’m not political, but...”
According to Spin Dictators, modern authoritarian leaders rarely censor outright anymore. Instead, they flood the online space with so much noise, emotion, and fake relatability that facts drown in the algorithm. It’s not about control—it’s about confusion and distraction.
“The new autocrat does not terrorise. He distracts, entertains, and overwhelms.”
That’s where the algorithmic army comes in. Carefully nurtured under the guise of “volunteerism” or “youth movements,” these networks are often well-funded, strategically managed, and trained in the fine art of going viral. Their job? To defend the leader's image at all costs, attack dissent, and hijack online discourse with #PositiveVibesOnly content.
It’s not just state propaganda anymore—it’s networked manipulation, a term explored in Network Propaganda by Benkler et al., where digital echo chambers are cultivated deliberately to suppress critical thinking. A public that scrolls in rage or awe is less likely to analyse or resist.
Meanwhile, The Age of Surveillance Capitalism gives us the economic angle: these digital armies thrive not just on ideology, but on attention. Every click, share, and reaction fuels a machine that converts engagement into control. The leader’s message isn’t broadcast—it’s targeted, optimised, and delivered right into the dopamine centres of the audience.
“Behavioural surplus is monetised, but also weaponised.”
So, when a critical article emerges, it's instantly buried under a flood of emojis, testimonials, and “random netizens” sharing deeply personal stories that all coincidentally praise the same politician. And if that fails, well, there’s always the good ol’ strategy of mass-reporting, discrediting the journalist, or calling every critic a "hater who never moved on."
Make no mistake: this is war. Not with bullets, but with bandwidth.
In the world of spin dictators, empathy isn’t felt—it’s marketed.
Modern populists have mastered the art of turning suffering into storytelling and hardship into highlight reels. A crying citizen becomes a cinematic backdrop. A struggling vendor is now a thumbnail with “heartwarming story” written all over it.
Whether it’s hugging flood victims, sharing instant noodles with disaster survivors, or wiping sweat dramatically during a photo op, today’s leaders don’t just feel the people’s pain—they schedule it into the content calendar. “The performance of humility is often more powerful than actual service.”
Photos of muddy boots, wrinkled brows, and staged exhaustion are deployed like campaign ads. And if a genuine emotional moment happens? Don’t worry—the cameramen are already in position, with cinematic background music ready to go.
What we’re witnessing isn’t leadership—it’s influencing with a political license.
The policy used to require explanation. Now, it just needs a catchy quote in bold font and a memeable photo. Welcome to meme-ified politics, where slogans outrank statistics, and engagement metrics outweigh long-term planning. It’s a world where a single viral clip of “leadership” at a construction site beats an entire year of competent policymaking.
Political communication today is engineered for short attention spans. As Spin Dictators suggests, image management replaces ideology, and likability trumps legacy. Leaders no longer argue—they go viral.
And memes are the perfect vehicle: they simplify, amplify, and often distort. Whether it’s turning a mediocre quote into national wisdom or editing a fumbled moment into a heroic montage, memes serve one purpose: to build the myth. “In the digital age, charisma is downloadable.”
In classic leadership, tough questions were met with firm answers. In populist politics, tough questions are met with a long pause, a mysterious smile, and a viral soundtrack. When things get controversial, spin leaders don’t respond with policy papers or accountability—they respond with a cinematic drone shot or a reel of them walking meaningfully into the sunset.
They know something crucial: in today’s world, vibes > substance.
Instead of addressing rising inflation, they’ll post a video petting cats or hanging out with delivery drivers. Instead of facing criticism about corruption, they’ll drop a quote like: “In life, we fall not to stay down—but to rise higher.” (With melancholic music playing in the background.)
As Guriev and Treisman argue, this silence isn’t laziness—it’s strategy. Avoiding substance creates ambiguity, and ambiguity allows followers to project whatever hope or fantasy they want onto their leader. Silence becomes strength. Vagueness becomes vision.
In the age of social media politics, governance has been replaced by performance art. Why deliver complex policy updates when you can share a 15-second clip of wiping a tear or giving a thumbs-up? Why hold press conferences when a heartfelt Instagram story will do?
Populist leaders have discovered the power of the emoji cabinet—a curated collection of emotions expressed through carefully staged reels, tweets, and viral posts.
Real achievements? Sometimes vague. Real challenges? Often glossed over. But the likes, shares, and comments? That’s what counts.
As Guriev and Treisman highlight, modern leadership is less about delivering results and more about crafting the perfect emotional narrative. The goal isn’t to solve problems but to make people feel like someone’s trying.
This is governance for the TikTok generation: fast, flashy, and filtered. “The future of politics isn’t policy—it’s performance.”
In the world of populist leaders armed with cameras, memes, and emoji cabinets, it’s easy to get swept away by the spectacle. The lines between real leadership and staged performance blur like Instagram filters. But here’s the thing: clicks don’t fix problems. Likes don’t lower inflation. Viral videos don’t build hospitals.
If we want better futures, we need better thinking—not just better branding. So next time you see a leader walking in slow-mo or sharing a “deep” quote with a sunset background, pause. Ask: “Is this leadership—or just a well-edited show?”
Because true change doesn’t come from viral reels or catchy slogans. It comes from holding leaders accountable, demanding substance, and refusing to be fooled by vibes alone.
Let’s scroll smarter, not just faster.
By the way, we’re still diving into this whole populist leader discussion—plus a bonus topic: a society that prefers not to think too hard. God willing.
