In a Galaxy Far, Far Away… someone finally understood bureaucracy? (article)

When it comes to science fiction’s grand empires, few franchises carry the weight of Star Wars and Star Trek. They’re the Coke and Pepsi of speculative escapism: both fizzy, futuristic, and with a loyal fanbase ready to engage in trench warfare over which one is “better.” One gave us lightsabers and space wizards; the other offered warp drives and utopian diplomacy. But if we’re judging purely on which saga nails the drab, backstabbing, paperwork-stuffed reality of government… then Star Wars: Andor might just win the vote—by landslide, by coup, or by quiet bureaucratic strangulation.

Let’s be honest: Star Trek has always given us a suspiciously optimistic view of government. In the United Federation of Planets, politicians and Starfleet officers are nobly selfless, science is always respected, and meetings are largely free of anyone trying to poison their rivals’ raktajino. It’s a lovely idea. A future where humanity has evolved beyond money, prejudice, and the need to mutter, “Well, that’s going in the expense report.” In Star Trek, even the villains often have surprisingly coherent policy platforms.

But Andor—oh, Andor—slinks in with its greyscale palette, morally ambiguous protagonists, and deliciously vile middle management. It’s not just a rebellion story; it’s a procedural thriller soaked in passive-aggression and institutional decay. It’s the one corner of Star Wars where you can practically smell the burnt caf, hear the weary sighs of overworked clerks, and witness the sheer Kafkaesque horror of filing requisition forms for torture equipment.

Syril Karn isn’t a moustache-twirling villain—he’s a company man who just wanted to impress his boss by investigating a double murder, only to be met with a corporate shrug and a stern memo about “optics.” Dedra Meero isn’t evil in the moustache-singeing sense—she’s an ambitious functionary playing the Empire’s internal politics like a chessboard, climbing the ranks through sheer tenacity and a chilling belief in order.

These people don’t want to destroy the galaxy. They want career progression.

This isn’t an Empire of supervillains in black cloaks zapping people for sneezing. It’s a slow, grinding machinery of middle managers, risk-averse generals, careerist bureaucrats, and petty officials trying to outmanoeuvre one another while the galaxy slides toward totalitarianism. In short: it’s depressingly familiar. Swap out the uniforms for ill-fitting suits and the Death Star for an underfunded infrastructure project and, well… you might just be in Westminster.

Meanwhile, over on the Star Trek side of the space fence, even the most epic crises are often handled with calm professionalism, universal translators, and moral clarity that would make the United Nations weep with envy. The Prime Directive might be a diplomatic nightmare on paper, but in practice it’s upheld with a kind of reverent, rulebook-thumping purity that no real-world governing body could possibly maintain. Starfleet captains quote Shakespeare, hold ethics committee meetings mid-disaster, and usually solve galactic-scale conflicts with a stirring speech and a clever bit of engineering.

It’s not that Star Trek is wrong. It’s aspirational. It gives us the best of what humanity could become. But Andor gives us what we are: scheming, flawed, deeply suspicious of our bosses, and vaguely terrified of committee reviews. It doesn’t diminish the heroism—it makes it shine sharper. When Luthen Rael delivers his monologue about sacrificing everything, it’s powerful precisely because he’s not an idealist. He’s a realist. A deeply exhausted realist with a killer coat.

So while Star Trek continues to wave the flag of hope and diplomacy, Andor walks us through the soul-numbing corridors of a regime where fear is currency, ambition is armour, and compliance is death by a thousand memos.

And in doing so, it becomes the most realistic science fiction portrayal of government since, well, Yes Minister. But with more explosions.