For a long time, I assumed that universities put students first. That seems self-evident: without students, a university has no reason to exist. In many places this is fortunately still the case, especially at younger universities and in countries where the traditional authority of professors has largely eroded.
That is precisely why I was surprised by how things worked at one of the universities I was employed at. I was used to lengthy discussions about curricula, careful analyses of student evaluations, consultations with student representatives. Everything revolved around one question: how can we improve the educational experience? Not here. The first question I was asked was not what students need, but: “What would you like to teach?”
I genuinely thought: Really? I get to decide that myself?
At first glance, that sounds appealing. A dream scenario for any professor. But once I saw which courses my colleagues were offering, my surprise turned into discomfort. Little consideration was given to student interests or to a coherent structure of the curriculum. Instead, everyone teaches their own micro-niche: highly specialised, often theoretical, and sometimes so narrow that even I would find it impenetrable. The result is a programme that worked very well for staff, but far less so for students.
I recognised the same pattern in new appointments. I was used to departments jointly discussing what they need. If there was a gap in field X, we would hire someone in that area. Here, things worked differently. Appointments were apparently meant to advance personal preferences above all else.
The decisive question is rarely what the curriculum requires, but whom someone wants to bring in. Favourites, protégés, former PhD students, friends of friends. These are the candidates who fit. Whether their expertise aligns with actual needs is secondary. Long before a position is officially advertised, potential external reviewers are already being approached.
Colleagues refer to this, half-jokingly, as “Vitamin C”: connections. Preferred candidates are quietly positioned. The right people end up on committees, others do not. By the time the formal procedure begins, the direction of the outcome has largely been set.
I encountered a particularly clear example in my very first week in the department. A stack of application files had been placed on my desk. Assuming there had been some mistake, I asked a colleague what I was supposed to do with them.
The answer was disarmingly direct: “That’s the position for X.”
My task, I was told, was to write the evaluation report, identify the three strongest candidates, and explain why X should be ranked first.
To be fair, X was certainly not a weak candidate. But there were stronger ones. In principle, the exercise made little sense: the ranking had already been decided. The report merely had to justify it.
I had been in the department for exactly one week. Starting my new position by challenging the entire procedure did not seem like the most strategic move. In the end, I asked a colleague to take over the task.
In hindsight, I sometimes wonder whether that was the wrong choice. Perhaps it would have been better to let the department know immediately what I thought of such arrangements.
This kind of situation is not unusual. It is, in fact, entirely typical of how Vitamin C operates in practice — not through open rule-breaking, but through careful, advance plotting. The real game takes place earlier, out of sight, fuelled by connections cultivated for this very purpose. Long before a position is officially advertised, potential external reviewers are already being approached. Preferred candidates are quietly positioned. The right people end up on committees, others do not. By the time the formal procedure begins, the direction of the outcome has largely been set.
For someone accustomed to consultation and consensus, this requires adjustment. More than that, it raises an uncomfortable question: what do you do once you see this clearly? Stay on the sidelines and watch the same people being appointed over and over again? Or play along, at least to prevent the network from closing entirely?
These are not isolated incidents. They are patterns. And they have consequences. For students, who receive a curriculum shaped by the personal interests and agendas of staff members rather than by coherence or learning goals. For early-career researchers, who learn that quality alone is rarely enough. And for colleagues who continue to believe that procedures are meant to guide decisions, while in practice they mostly serve to legitimise what has already been decided.
Once you recognise these games, innocence disappears. Not because everyone has bad intentions, but because the system rewards this behaviour. Those who know how to position their favourites set the agenda. Those who refuse to play either adapt or become marginalised. The question is no longer who has the best plan, but who knows how to deploy their network most effectively – who knows how the game is played.
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