One Morning’s Experience
The alarm went off while it was still dark. 4:30 a.m. I had been invited by a fellow entrepreneur to attend a seminar run by a certain organization. The venue was a grand ballroom in a downtown hotel. When I arrived, over a hundred people had already gathered. Men in suits, women in polished attire. Everyone stood tall, and an unmistakable tension filled the room.
As the event began, the lights dimmed and a spotlight hit the stage. A powerful voice rang out; participants rose to their feet in unison. Handshakes with the person next to you. Call-and-response chants. A speaker on stage recounting a tearful personal story. Sobs echoed sympathetically from the audience. The entire hall was swept into a single emotion.
I was there, and yet I watched with a certain detachment. It was not that I felt nothing. But alongside whatever I felt, a question refused to leave my mind: Where is this emotion coming from? Why does it unfold in this particular sequence?
When the seminar ended and I stepped outside, the morning light was blinding. What lingered in my chest was not inspiration but a discomfort I could not easily put into words. I have been thinking about the nature of that discomfort ever since.
Dissecting the Design of the Event
Let me revisit that morning’s experience not through emotion, but through structure.
First, the staging of the extraordinary. A 4 a.m. assembly, a darkened hall, spotlights. Placing oneself in a time and space far removed from the everyday naturally lowers psychological defenses. Sleep deprivation’s effect on judgment, whether intended or not, is structurally at work.
Next, the cultivation of solidarity. Everyone performs the same actions, chants the same words, shakes hands with a stranger beside them. Physical synchronization generates psychological unity. Within minutes, the feeling of “We are on the same side” takes hold.
Then, a designed emotional peak. Tearful testimonials, recovery from hardship, life-changing turning points. Story is powerful. Especially when preceded by solidarity, a story is received not as one person’s experience but as “our story.” Emotional resonance amplifies.
Finally, the close. While the afterglow of inspiration lingers, the membership pitch is delivered. “Only those who can decide in this moment” is the added line. Temporal urgency and residual emotion accelerate the decision.
Let me be clear: the fact that it is designed is not itself grounds for criticism. Education, religious rituals, concerts—none can exist without the design of experience. The issue lies in the intent and consequences of the design.
The Approval Rationing System
After the close came the decisive scene.
Those who decided to join were called on stage. Their names were announced; they were greeted with applause and photographed alongside leaders. The entire hall celebrated them. The photos were shared on social media, accompanied by comments like “A new member of the family.”
Meanwhile, those who held back remained in their seats. They became the ones providing the applause. On the celebrating side, not the celebrated. No one called their names. No camera turned their way.
Let me describe precisely what happened here. Approval was being “rationed.” Rationing comes with conditions. The act of joining became the condition for receiving approval. Those who met the condition received applause, photographs, and the public utterance of their names. Those who did not received none of these.
The photo session is a ritual of approval. It becomes a record, is made visible on social media, and publicly certifies one’s existence within the community. Conversely, those not in the photos disappear from the day’s record. Despite being physically present, they become absent in the record.
This is the source of the lingering unease. I was not excluded. I was not attacked. I was simply—in a setting where approval was conditionally rationed—quietly rendered transparent as someone who did not meet the conditions.
Where approval is rationed, those who are not rationed to are treated as absent.
Exclusion by Goodwill
What makes this structure so insidious is the absence of malice.
The organizers genuinely believe. Early rising transforms people. A positive attitude improves life. A strong mind leads to health. Health leads to happiness. Therefore, being here is good, and joining is even better.
“Strong mind = health = happiness.” At first glance, this formula appears positive and harmless. But invert it, and a different meaning surfaces. A weak mind leads to poor health and unhappiness. If you are unhappy, it is because your mind is weak.
There are people living with mental illness. People pushed to the financial edge. People who cannot leave home before dawn because of caregiving or childcare. People living with physical disabilities or chronic conditions. These individuals do not exist within the formula “a strong mind leads to happiness.”
When someone says with goodwill, “You can change too,” implicit assumptions are embedded. That the person is in a state that needs changing. That they have the capacity to change. That they have the time and financial means to change. Those who cannot meet these assumptions lie outside the reach of goodwill. And the existence of those outside its reach is invisible from within.
Goodwill becomes an apparatus of exclusion when it fails to imagine those it cannot reach.
“For your sake” is a phrase that harbors power. It negates the other person’s present state and demands change. Because it is goodwill, it is hard to refuse. Because it is goodwill, it is hard to critique. Exclusion by goodwill is structurally more robust than exclusion by malice—because those doing the excluding do not recognize it as exclusion.
The Opposite of Ethics Is Not “Evil”
Conventionally, the opposite of ethics is thought to be “evil” or “immorality.” Lying, harming others, breaking the law. These are indeed acts that violate ethics.
But evil has one virtue: it can be recognized. Evil is visible as evil. Therefore, it can be resisted, criticized, and distanced from.
What this essay aims to identify is a far more intractable structure: the wrapping of exclusion, selection, and approval rationing in the language of “ethics,” “morality,” and “personal character.” This is the deepest opposite of ethics.
Consider what happened that morning. People who could wake early were selected. People who could afford the fee were selected. People who decided to join were selected. Those who passed through selection were rationed approval. And the entire process was presented as “a place to learn ethics.”
When the structure of selection and exclusion is cloaked in the word “ethics,” a double problem arises. First, those who are excluded are assigned the meaning of being “ethically inferior.” Those who did not join are remembered as people who lacked the will to learn ethics. Second, the structure of exclusion itself becomes immune to criticism—because to criticize it is equated with “opposing ethics.”
Evil can be recognized, so it can be addressed. Exclusion by goodwill is hard to recognize, so it becomes structural. Because it is structural, it is reproduced. Because it is reproduced, those involved increasingly internalize it as “something good.” This feedback loop is why the opposite of ethics runs deeper than evil.
In the preceding essay, “When Ethics Meets Economics,” I examined the structure in which economics becomes a gate. This essay continues that analysis by examining the structure in which approval becomes a gate. Economic gates and approval gates share the same root. Both attach conditions to ethics that should be directed at everyone—and quietly exclude those who cannot meet them.
Structural Transformation of the Approval Economy
So far I have pointed out the structural problem. But if the essay ends at critique, it too is merely “watching from the outside.” Can the approval-economy system be structurally transformed? I believe it can.
Referrals: The Ledger of Trust
Many organizations have systems where existing members introduce acquaintances. Complex psychology is at work for the introducer. “Is this place truly good for them?” “Will a refusal damage our relationship?” “What will they think of me for belonging to this group?” A referral is the act of staking your trust balance on another person. If the invitee finds value, your trust grows; if they feel uneasy, it diminishes.
When referrals continue despite such unease, distortion accumulates within the introducer. Despite inner doubt, referrals are made to meet organizational expectations. Goodwill morphs into obligation, and obligation is internalized. Eventually the belief that “introducing is the right thing” overwrites one’s own discomfort.
Here, a contradiction emerges. These organizations often enshrine “family love” as a core principle—cherishing family, never forgetting gratitude toward them. Yet many members who attend dawn seminars, pay fees, and spend time on referral activities carry an inner sense of being unable to look their family in the eye. “Is this really for my family’s benefit?” The moment that question is articulated, the meaning of being there begins to waver. So the question is suppressed. A place that enshrines family love generates friction with the family—this paradox is the most intimate distortion produced by the structure of goodwill.
The referral setting carries its own pressure. “I’d love to meet them,” comes the celebratory response. Leaders and peers say, “What a wonderful person—I’d love to speak with them.” It may be genuine enthusiasm. But structurally, it communicates the expectation “please bring that person here” in the form of celebration. It is hard to decline. Because it is not a command but a celebration. Referral pressure cloaked as celebration—this, too, is a variation of the structure in which goodwill generates exclusion.
Change the Metric, Change the Gaze
Many organizations use membership enrollment as their performance metric. When enrollment becomes the target, closing pressure intensifies and approval rationing accelerates. The structure of celebrating joiners and rendering non-joiners transparent is an inevitable consequence of this metric.
What if the metric shifted from “enrollment/attrition count” to “average retention period”? Pressured enrollments that quickly result in departures would drag the metric down. The quality of the ongoing experience, not the euphoria at the entrance, would come under scrutiny. Exclusion by goodwill promotes short-term enrollment but does not contribute to long-term retention. Changing the metric creates a structural brake on exclusion by goodwill.
Going further: what if the metric shifted from “number enrolled” to “number who encountered the philosophy”? Even those who do not join have encountered the philosophy—that fact remains. Not treating enrollment—an economic act—as the outcome. Treating the encounter itself as the value. When this shift occurs, the group’s gaze moves from revenue goals to psychological transformation. Non-joiners are no longer “failures” but “people who received a seed.”
From Euphoria-Driven Closing to Celebrating Existence
Recall the closing scene. The membership pitch delivered in the afterglow of inspiration; those who decide are called on stage and approved with applause and photographs. If we were to change this structure, what would it look like?
Eliminate euphoria-driven closing. Instead, ask every participant: “Was there anything you liked about today’s experience?” “Can you think of someone who might appreciate this?” Invite reflection on the experience, not a decision to join. And celebrate everyone who was present, regardless of whether they join.
This is a shift from an approval-rationing system to an existence-affirming system. Not conditional approval but the affirmation of existence itself. Not only those who ascended the stage but also those who remained in their seats are celebrated for “having been here.”
Economics as Gift
Many organizations have mechanisms to reciprocate when a referral brings in a new member. But whether the reciprocation takes the form of reward (incentive) or gift makes all the structural difference.
Reward turns the referral into an economic act. Gift turns the referral into a cycle of trust. For instance, delivering educational materials as a gift to the referrer—for their own learning. Presenting the opportunity for financial contribution as an “invitation,” not an obligation. Whether to accept, and how much to contribute, is entirely left to the individual.
This design does not eliminate economics but repositions it. Not as a gate at the entrance, but embedded within the cycle of trust.
Then What Is Ethics?
If the structure of exclusion and selection is called ethics, then what is true ethics?
At the very least, it is not selecting. Proof of existence does not belong only to the exceptional. Nor only to the successful. Nor only to those who can wake early, pay fees, or decide quickly. Every human being holds the right to leave a record that they existed here. TokiStorage’s commitment to the “democratization of proof of existence” exists precisely to ensure that recording existence never involves selection.
It is not excluding. TokiQR is free to use. The HMAC key is published in the source code. The activation code for a service worth ¥55,000 is posted on a page anyone can read. “Designed on Trust” structurally guarantees access to ethics by erecting no economic gate.
It is not rationing approval. Pearl Soap is delivered as a gift. No payment is demanded. Records remain even without purchase. Existence is proven without passing through a ritual of approval. The voice inscribed in a QR code endures for a thousand years, whether or not anyone ever applauded.
Three-layer distributed preservation—physical inscription on quartz glass, deposit with the National Diet Library, and digital publication on GitHub Pages—is a system that proves existence without belonging to any particular community. No enrollment, no withdrawal, no approval, no exclusion. Just the record of existence, quietly preserved across three independent layers.
Spaces that teach ethics tend to embed selection and approval rationing. Yet even a space that does not teach ethics can embed within its design a quiet occasion for ethical awareness. A thousand years from now, when someone scans a QR code and hears a stranger’s voice, reflection may arise. That reflection was not rationed by anyone. It is a quiet occasion, planted by design.
Do not select. Do not exclude. Do not ration approval. That is the design furthest from the opposite of ethics.