[Note: This portrayal is humorous, hopefully, but possibly relatable.]

I did not set out to study institutions.

I merely sat very still, took notes, and refrained from sudden movements.

Over time, patterns emerged.

Like Jane Goodall among the chimpanzees, the institutional ecologist must first earn trust—not by asserting dominance, but by not behaving like the others. This alone is disorienting to the natives.

Where others arrive bearing PowerPoint decks, the ecologist arrives with a notebook and a calm expression, observing quietly as the dominant males perform ritual displays of confidence while solving none of the problems at hand.

Early observations

Day 3.

The Alpha Chair beats chest vigorously while declaring, “We need bold vision.”

No evidence of food procurement or shelter maintenance follows.

Day 7.

A mid-ranking member hoards procedural authority, refusing to share it with those who actually understand the system. This behavior appears instinctual and is praised as “leadership.”

Day 11.

A subcommittee is formed. No one can explain what it does, but its creation produces visible relief among the group, suggesting it functions as a stress-regulation mechanism rather than an operational one.

I note quietly: subcommittees appear to absorb anxiety rather than solve problems.

Communication patterns

Institutions communicate much like primates—through signals rather than content.

A raised eyebrow indicates dissent.

A carefully neutral phrase (“That’s an interesting question”) indicates hostility.

Silence is the most powerful tool of all, deployed with surgical precision.

When the ecologist asks a clarifying question—“What would have to be true for this to work?”—the group freezes. This question does not exist in the local dialect. It is neither a dominance challenge nor an affirmation ritual.

Confusion ensues.

Mating displays and grant season

During funding cycles, behavior intensifies.

Members produce elaborate plumage in the form of strategic plans, glossy reports, and mission statements. These documents are waved vigorously but rarely read. Their purpose appears ceremonial.

The ecologist notes that actual survival depends not on these displays, but on:

quiet staff who maintain the infrastructure legacy systems no one admits relying on informal norms that contradict official policy

When asked why these factors are not acknowledged, one subject replies:

“That’s just how we do things.”

This phrase functions as a universal camouflage pattern.

Attempts at integration

Occasionally, the ecologist is invited to “help fix things.”

This is a trap.

Fixing would require joining the dominance hierarchy, adopting the calls, and pretending not to see what has already been seen. The ecologist politely declines, continuing instead to map migration paths of responsibility and identify regions of chronic resource depletion.

This refusal is interpreted as aloofness, arrogance, or “not being a team player.”

The ecologist writes in the margin:

Observer role misunderstood as lack of commitment.

Late-stage behaviors

In aging institutions, one observes particularly poignant rituals.

Elders speak nostalgically of a time when the system “worked,” though no one can produce documentation. Younger members nod respectfully, knowing instinctively that questioning origin myths leads to exile.

Warning signs—missed deadlines, declining trust, procedural absurdities—are treated as background noise, like distant thunder.

When collapse accelerates, the group responds by:

increasing meetings rewriting bylaws reaffirming values

None of these alter the underlying food supply.

The ecologist’s dilemma

The institutional ecologist faces a constant ethical tension.

Intervene, and distort the study.

Remain silent, and watch preventable harm unfold.

So the ecologist does what Jane Goodall did best:

records faithfully speaks precisely refuses to romanticize insists that what is happening is actually happening

This alone is often received as an act of aggression.

Field conclusion

Institutions, like social animals, are not stupid. They are adapted—sometimes exquisitely—to environments that no longer exist.

The tragedy is not that they fail.

It is that they refuse to notice why.

The ecologist closes the notebook, having learned one final lesson:

It is surprisingly difficult to explain to a room full of humans

that you are not there to dominate, fix, or overthrow—

only to observe, name patterns, and tell the truth.

And yet, this quiet work matters.

Because someday, when the old habitat collapses, someone will ask:

“How did this happen?”

And the notes will already be there.