I read Running the World by David Rothkopf during a summer sabbatical, last year, when the pace of life slowed just enough for me to sit with complex systems—like American foreign policy—and really follow the gears turning.
The book, published in 2005, already felt somewhat time-anchored, a document of the post-9/11 world with its anxieties and ambitions laid bare. But it also read like a master key—something that unlocked not just the decisions of a few presidencies, but the entire architecture of how power is actually wielded behind the glossy podiums and strategic press leaks. It was a book that didn’t ask who was in power, but how power itself flows—stealthy, centralized, and, more often than not, unelected.
Rothkopf’s work is exhaustive and painstakingly detailed, but never dry. The story he tells isn’t about democracy as we imagine it, but about a hidden cockpit deep inside the Executive Branch—the National Security Council (NSC)—where a rotating cast of advisers, fixers, ideologues, generals, and technocrats shape U.S. foreign policy with an intimacy and impunity that makes Congress feel almost ornamental.
Created in 1947 in the aftermath of World War II and at the dawn of the Cold War, the NSC was originally intended to be a kind of think-tank-meets-advisory-board. But what began as Truman’s modest idea for coordination has since metastasized into something far more potent: a shadow foreign ministry with unprecedented access to presidential decision-making. Over the decades, and especially during moments of geopolitical crisis, the NSC has been the de facto war room for American imperial will.
The core argument Rothkopf makes is simple, even if the implications are enormous: American foreign policy isn’t really made by sprawling bureaucracies or democratic deliberation. It’s made by small, tight-knit teams—“architects” of American power—who operate in rooms the public rarely sees. These men and women are often brilliant, sometimes ruthless, and frequently at odds with each other. But what binds them is their proximity to the president and their ability to act quickly—sometimes bypassing traditional checks, balances, and even morality.
The book profiles some of the most influential figures in postwar U.S. diplomacy: Kissinger, the master manipulator; Brzezinski, cerebral and ruthless; Scowcroft, the cold stabilizer; Condoleezza Rice, navigating Bush-era hawkishness; and Colin Powell, the forever conflicted soldier-statesman. What Rothkopf reveals is not just their personalities, but the political ecosystems they created and thrived within. Foreign policy, it turns out, is rarely a matter of ideology alone. It's also about office politics, ego, timing, and bureaucratic maneuvering.
There’s something chilling in the way Running the World reveals how wars have been decided in closed-door meetings, how intelligence has been shaped to fit narratives, how alliances have been struck not on principle, but on expedience. Rothkopf doesn’t sensationalize it—he doesn’t need to. The facts speak loudly enough. We see the NSC’s expanding role in everything from the Cuban Missile Crisis to Vietnam, from Reagan’s Central America policies to Clinton’s Balkans interventions, all the way to the Bush-Cheney-Rumsfeld trinity that marched the U.S. into Iraq.
What stayed with me, reading it in a time of supposed global reflection, was the sheer insulation of decision-making in Washington’s upper echelons. The NSC is portrayed as a place where smart people talk to other smart people, often without ever consulting the public, the press, or even other parts of government. And that, Rothkopf argues, is both its genius and its peril. The same agility that allows the NSC to respond to crises quickly also allows it to make devastating miscalculations—unchecked, unchallenged, and sometimes, unrepentant.
Of course, there are criticisms to be made. The book is deeply U.S.-centric—by necessity, perhaps, but sometimes frustratingly so. Rothkopf assumes a fairly intimate knowledge of American political history, and at times, the internal debates between NSC and State, or NSC and CIA, feel like an exclusive club you’re only half-allowed into. Some reviewers have noted he can be too sympathetic to the very elites he profiles, too fascinated by the machinery to fully condemn its outcomes. But to his credit, Rothkopf doesn’t hide these tensions—he lets the reader sit with them.
Reading Running the World reminded me that power is not just about what decisions get made—it’s about who gets to make them.
It’s about how institutions evolve to answer needs that the public isn’t even aware of. It’s about what happens when the world’s most powerful nation treats diplomacy as a high-speed chess game played by a dozen minds—and how sometimes, the rest of us are left to sweep up the board.
It may be dated in some of its examples, yes. But Running the World remains astonishingly relevant, especially in an age where executive power continues to balloon, and crises feel permanent. Rothkopf doesn’t offer comfort—but he offers clarity. And sometimes, clarity is the most subversive form of power there is.