Long-termism - somewhere in the middle of nowhere

Somewhere between the first page and the last, we are both author and character — unsure whether our story continues or ends with us. This uncertainty mirrors the very challenge of longtermism: how do we act ethically for a future that is yet to exist, whose inhabitants we will never meet?
Long-termism is often presented as a set of assumptions, a reasoning framework, and a philosophy of moral obligation. At its foundation lie three core ideas: first, that future generations will exist; second, that human civilisation could endure for centuries or millennia; and third, that our actions today influence the conditions of that future. These ideas are straightforward on paper, but in practice, they confront us with profound ethical and philosophical dilemmas.
As a first-year student of Philosophy, Politics, and Economics, I have often pondered the tension between the present and the future. On one hand, longtermism urges us to prioritise distant outcomes, to tilt the scales toward centuries yet unborn. On the other hand, the present is urgent and tangible, composed of real crises with real stakes. Small challenges today — poverty, disease, environmental degradation — can metastasise into crises tomorrow. To neglect them in the pursuit of hypothetical future gains is not virtue; it is negligence.
Yet, longtermism has shaped my understanding of morality in ways that go beyond immediate consequences. It compels me to reflect on the ethics that survive through time — the values and principles that are carried forward not by resources alone, but by culture, behaviour, and shared understanding. In this sense, ethics themselves become the greatest investment in the future. They are what endure when our monuments crumble, when our technologies become obsolete.
Among the ethical principles I find most compelling is the impartiality of doing good. This principle argues that the moral value of an action is independent of the intensity of feeling toward its cause. A person may feel little emotional attachment to a distant crisis, but if their actions, combined with others’, produce a substantial benefit, the impact is real. To illustrate, consider a small donation of five pounds to a charitable cause. Alone, it may seem insignificant. Yet if fifteen per cent of the global population made the same contribution, billions could be raised — enough to prevent disease, hunger, or displacement. This demonstrates that morality, when scaled collectively, transcends individual sentiment.
In essence, the future cannot be saved by sentiment alone. It requires action, but action tempered with reason and foresight. This balance between ethical aspiration and practical realism is where my personal reflection intersects with the theory of longtermism. We must act with the knowledge that not all variables are under our control. Future populations may grow or shrink dramatically. Ecological systems may collapse or adapt. Technological breakthroughs may reshape the world in ways we cannot anticipate.
This uncertainty does not absolve us of responsibility; it frames it. I have come to think of longtermism not as a duty of deed but as a duty of thought. The future should inhabit our minds, not as a distant fantasy but as a guiding presence in daily decision-making. We may never fully secure the outcomes of centuries yet to come, but we can avoid derailing them through negligence or recklessness. We can prepare the conditions for moral and practical flourishing without pretending to command the distant future.
Time itself complicates moral judgment. Actions deemed immoral today may later be recognised as virtuous; values once condemned may be celebrated. History is rife with such examples — the work of scientists, reformers, and artists often misunderstood in their time but revered in ours. Long-termism, then, requires humility. It asks that we act prudently, aware that certainty is an illusion and that morality is as much about context as principle.
This tension between action and uncertainty gives rise to a useful distinction: urgent versus patient longtermism. Urgent longtermism demands immediate interventions to prevent catastrophic outcomes — climate collapse, nuclear threats, and unaligned artificial intelligence are cases where delay could be disastrous. Patient longtermism, in contrast, advocates for the preservation of moral, institutional, and cultural foundations that enable future generations to thrive. Both approaches are necessary. Urgency without foresight risks shortsightedness; patience without initiative risks inaction. Together, they form a continuum of moral responsibility across time.
One of the most compelling applications of longtermism is the design of institutions and infrastructure. Consider the example of a building constructed without technological adaptability — no electrical outlets, no digital access. Even if structurally perfect, such a building becomes obsolete. Institutions are similar: constitutions, governments, and social systems must be flexible, anticipating the unforeseeable shifts of the future while grounding themselves in the present. The United States Constitution, the Indian Constitution, and other foundational documents exemplify this balance. They are rigid enough to endure, yet adaptable enough to evolve, ensuring that the rights and responsibilities they enshrine persist across generations.
Yet, the ethical horizon of longtermism must extend beyond humanity. Our moral duty encompasses not only human prosperity but the well-being of the planet and all its inhabitants. Environmental degradation is not just a threat to future humans; it is a threat to ecosystems, species, and the intricate web of life that sustains us. Rivers, forests, and wildlife are not replaceable commodities. They are the living foundation of a future worth caring for.
This perspective demands a shift from optimal to preservative utilisation of resources. Sustainability, in its conventional sense, often privileges human endurance at the expense of other forms of life. Preservative utilisation, however, seeks to maintain ecological balance and prevent irreversible loss. It acknowledges that human survival is intertwined with the health of the planet. The extinction of a species, the collapse of an ecosystem, is a moral and practical failure — a legacy of negligence that will shape the world far beyond our own lifetimes.
Long-termism also presents a profound political challenge. Can we impose our moral and institutional frameworks on generations yet unborn? Should we attempt to ensure that they inherit a specific set of values, or must we allow moral evolution to occur organically? This dilemma is not theoretical; it is practical. Without some continuity of ethics, society risks descending into chaos. Yet, rigidity risks stifling the moral creativity and adaptation that the future will demand.
Democracy offers a case study in this paradox. Today, democracy is widely regarded as the best achievable form of governance, grounded in the principles of freedom and representation. Yet, democracy is inherently imperfect. Power and resources are unevenly distributed; rights exist in theory more than in practice. To impose democracy on future generations as an ideal would be an act of arrogance. The system that suits our present may not suit theirs. What we can do is prepare institutions to be resilient, adaptable, and equitable — leaving space for the evolution of governance as circumstances and values change.
This approach extends to initiatives like Future Councils or Ombudsmen, designed to safeguard long-term interests. Such mechanisms are meaningful only if the present is secure and resources are sufficient. In nations struggling to provide basic welfare, prioritising speculative long-term structures can exacerbate current crises. The moral calculus must balance the needs of today with the potential of tomorrow.
The Constitution, as I have reflected on it, embodies the essence of longtermist thinking. It safeguards the rights of the unborn while leaving room for interpretation and evolution. It is both cautious and ambitious, protecting what is essential while allowing society to grow and change. In this, it illustrates a fundamental truth of longtermism: we must build a foundation, but never attempt to predetermine the entirety of the future.
Reflecting personally, I am struck by the tension between what is knowable and what is possible. The future is not real until it occurs. To plan too far ahead is to gamble on speculation; to act only in the present is to invite collapse. The brilliance of the future is its uncertainty; the greatness of the present is its immediacy; the wisdom of the past is its lessons. Together, they form a moral compass — imperfect, yet invaluable.
Long-termism has taught me that moral responsibility is not linear. It is recursive, extending backwards and forwards across time. Decisions are judged not only by their immediate outcomes but by their capacity to sustain human and ecological flourishing. It demands patience, foresight, and humility — virtues that are cultivated, not mandated.
Ultimately, the philosophy of longtermism is a reflection on human limits as much as it is on human potential. We cannot foresee every consequence, nor can we fully predict the needs of future generations. Yet, we can act with consciousness, humility, and care. We can invest in values, institutions, and ecosystems that are flexible and enduring. We can choose collective action over individual impulse.
To embrace longtermism is not to forsake the present. It is to recognise that the present and the future are inextricably linked. Our ethical duty is to act in ways that strengthen both: to resolve crises today so they do not become catastrophes tomorrow, and to cultivate the principles and institutions that will guide generations yet unborn.
The future is not a distant abstraction; it is the shadow of our actions stretching forward in time. To act ethically is to be conscious of that shadow, to ensure that it falls on the ground of opportunity rather than disaster. It is in the daily decisions, the collective efforts, and the preservation of what matters that longtermism finds its true expression.
Somewhere between the first page and the last, we remain authors of our own lives and stewards of tomorrow. The challenge of longtermism is not to predict the future perfectly, but to act in ways that honour its possibility. The past teaches us, the present demands us, and the future awaits — and in this triad of time, morality finds its weight.
The future, in the end, is not built by visions alone, but by the conscientious actions of those who dwell in the present. If we accept this responsibility, even imperfectly, we participate in something larger than ourselves: the slow, careful shaping of a world that we will never fully witness, yet whose contours will bear the imprint of our care.
Longtermism, therefore, is not a duty imposed, but a duty discovered. It is the quiet recognition that our choices echo through time, and that the measure of our morality is not only what we achieve today, but what we leave for the unborn — the invisible heirs of our decisions, the silent witnesses of our ethical striving.
And in this responsibility lies both the weight of the future and the greatness of the present: a task neither grandiose nor simple, yet profoundly human.