The election posters went up the same week the new data center opened on the edge of the city.
From the roof of his butcher shop, Tatsuya could see both.
The old market street below.
And the glass cube humming with servers that now processed half the prefecture’s political advertising.
⸻
Every morning, customers came for different reasons.
Old Mrs. Sato came for beef tendon.
The café owner came for chicken thighs.
The fitness trainer came for lean pork and macro advice.
Across the street, the fruit shop sold sweetness.
Next door, the spice shop sold heat.
And the supermarket at the corner sold everything — not perfectly, but enough.
Tatsuya understood markets.
What he didn’t understand was why the political volunteers suddenly started coming in groups, buying nothing, just watching who bought what.
⸻
One afternoon, a young campaign analyst walked in.
She wore sneakers, a party badge, and an exhausted expression that suggested too many dashboards.
“You know,” she said, watching the customers line up,
“this is basically how elections work now.”
Tatsuya raised an eyebrow.
⸻
She explained it using his world.
“In older political theory, people talked about the ‘middle voter’ — like if you price meat for the average customer, you win.”
“But modern models are messier.”
She pulled up a graph.
“There’s something called probabilistic voting theory. It assumes voters and candidates don’t fully know each other’s preferences, and outcomes depend on how big and cohesive different groups are — not just one middle point.”
“So if enough people want spice,” Tatsuya said,
“you sell spice even if meat buyers are in the middle?”
“Exactly.”
⸻
She pointed outside.
“Modern campaigns don’t just sell one thing. They build coalitions.”
She showed him case studies.
Some campaigns try to unite very different groups into one big tent — sometimes pulling supporters from other ideologies if they think they can build a wider coalition.
Others do the opposite — say less, promise less, avoid scaring moderates.
That cautious “small target” strategy has helped win major elections in the UK, Australia, Germany, and elsewhere.
⸻
“But isn’t promising everything dangerous?” Tatsuya asked.
She nodded.
“That’s the problem with manifestos too.”
In theory, voters compare detailed promise lists and vote accordingly, turning elections into competition between policy bundles rather than personalities.
“In reality, politics keeps changing after elections. Markets move. Wars happen. Tech changes. Climate shifts.”
⸻
Later that evening, Tatsuya searched online forums.
One comment stuck with him:
Successful campaigns often build broad coalitions rather than just energizing a narrow base — especially in two-party systems where winning the center matters.
Another user argued elections aren’t just a simple spectrum — they’re multi-dimensional, with identity, economics, culture, and security all interacting.
That sounded like the market street.
Nobody was just “a meat customer.”
They were also:
• Parents
• Workers
• Patients
• Taxpayers
• Internet users
• Climate voters
• Pension voters
⸻
Election day came during a late winter rain.
Tatsuya watched turnout notifications flash across a screen in the campaign office — real-time modeling, turnout probability scoring, micro-segmentation.
Modern campaigns use statistical tools to predict who is likely to vote and what message will move them, often using demographic and behavioral data to segment voters.
It felt less like speeches, more like supply chain optimization.
⸻
That night, the results came in.
The winning party didn’t promise the best meat.
Or the best fruit.
Or the best spice.
They promised:
Affordable groceries.
Energy security.
AI jobs.
Rural subsidies.
Childcare credits.
Defense stability.
Carbon transition — but slowly.
Not perfection.
Coverage.
⸻
The next morning, nothing in the market had changed.
Mrs. Sato still bought tendon.
The café still bought chicken.
The trainer still counted macros.
But Tatsuya finally understood elections.
They weren’t about finding the single thing everyone wanted.
They were about assembling a basket large enough
that enough people could find at least one thing inside worth voting for.
And the most dangerous parties weren’t always the ones that sold only meat.
Sometimes they were the ones that sold everything —
and made every customer believe
they were the shop built just for them.
⸻
All names of people and organizations appearing in this story are pseudonyms
Comments