In the cyclical ferment of presidential elections, America’s grand experiment in representative democracy once again unfolds before us, a combination of statesmanship and pageantry, enlivened by the rhetoric of candidates seeking the highest office in the land. Yet, as this procession of democracy marches on, there is a growing sense that a significant swath of the country—indeed, the vast interior of our republic—is increasingly being treated as mere spectators, rather than participants, in the selection of their president.
The Electoral College, that peculiar institution crafted by the framers of our Constitution, is once again at the center of debate. Its defenders, among whom I have often counted myself, argue that it serves a salutary function in preserving federalism, ensuring that smaller states are not overshadowed by populous metropolises in the eternal struggle for political power. And yet, there is no denying that this very system—designed to ensure that no region dominates—has itself become the cause of regional neglect. Vast stretches of the country are, in practical terms, written off by candidates long before the first votes are cast.
In the battleground that is the Electoral College, a handful of swing states, some a mere sliver of the nation’s electoral map, are lavished with attention, while the rest are left to languish in political obscurity. California and New York—bulwarks of Democratic support—are neglected as sure bets for one party. Texas, a Republican stronghold until recent cycles, is equally ignored by the left. In between, the heartland—those great swaths of farmland and industry, where towns and cities hum with the industrious spirit of the American middle class—find themselves bypassed by both parties, neither one bothering to reach out to areas predetermined by our archaic system of state-based voting.
Consider the cities of Omaha, Cedar Rapids, and Akron. These are not the gilded corridors of power, nor are they the burgeoning tech hubs that shape our economy in profound ways. They are, however, America’s backbone, and the people who live in these cities are the heirs to our most cherished ideals—rugged individualism, civic duty, and the quiet dignity that accompanies a job well done. Yet, in the calculus of modern electoral strategy, they are too often forgotten. This is not a failure of individual candidates but of the system that shapes their incentives. Campaigns, being rational creatures, focus their resources where the votes are truly up for grabs, leading to the repetitive spectacle of candidates zigzagging between a predictable set of counties in Pennsylvania, Wisconsin, and Florida.
The result is a form of disenfranchisement—not in the literal sense, as ballots are still counted and electoral votes still allotted—but in the more subtle and insidious sense that millions of Americans feel excluded from the process. It is a disenfranchisement born not of law but of neglect, as campaigns are drawn like moths to the same swing states, leaving others, particularly those in non-competitive states, to wither in political irrelevance.
It is here that we must ask ourselves whether the Electoral College, in its current form, is functioning as the framers intended. Madison, Hamilton, and their compatriots crafted this institution to balance power between the populous and the less populous, ensuring that the voices of all states, large and small, were heard in the selection of our president. Yet today, one could argue that the Electoral College does not amplify the voices of smaller states but instead distorts the national conversation. We hear endlessly from voters in Michigan’s suburban counties and Ohio’s rural enclaves, while the concerns of Idaho, Oklahoma, and Vermont might as well be whispers in the wind.
Proponents of the Electoral College argue, rightly, that abolishing it in favor of a national popular vote would exacerbate these disparities, concentrating power in coastal metropolises and reducing the influence of the heartland even further. But the question remains: is it not possible to maintain the virtues of the Electoral College—federalism, state sovereignty, the protection of regional diversity—while addressing the deepening inequalities it perpetuates? Proposals to allocate electoral votes proportionally, as Nebraska and Maine have done, are one avenue. Others suggest reforms that would incentivize candidates to compete more broadly across the country, perhaps through ranked-choice voting or a reformulation of how electoral votes are apportioned.
What is clear is that the current state of affairs serves neither the country nor our democracy well. As campaigns focus more and more on fewer and fewer states, our politics become narrower, less responsive, and more tribal. The polarization that has seized our public discourse is, in part, a symptom of this very narrowing, as candidates are forced to cater to the most vocal and ideologically motivated factions in the swing states, leaving little room for compromise or coalition-building.
The neglect of the heartland, of the great middle of America, is a neglect of the very essence of our republic. For in the quiet towns of Ohio, the sprawling plains of Kansas, and the factory floors of Michigan, one finds the bedrock of the American experiment: a people who work, who strive, who love their country with a deep and abiding patriotism. They are not asking for much—only that their voices be heard, their concerns considered, and their votes matter.
The Electoral College, in its present form, is failing them. And in doing so, it is failing the country.
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