Class, privilege and meritocracy: the illusion of opportunity in the literary world

Who gets published and who gets left behind? It is class privilege, not talent, that dictates the answer.

If you’re passionate about literature—not just as a pastime, but as a serious academic pursuit—you’ve probably contemplated becoming a writer or pursuing a career in teaching and research. I know I have. For as long as I can remember, I’ve aspired to a life dedicated to scholarship. Yet, as I edge closer to writing my dissertation, securing a teaching position, and earning the coveted “Doctor” title, I can’t help but reflect on how deeply class privilege influences who gets to succeed in academia and the literary world, even at the most basic levels.

[Meritocracy] is a comforting narrative that leads us to believe that if we don’t succeed, it’s because our projects weren’t good enough, or we lacked the necessary skill—not because the system is designed to favour those who start off with built-in advantages.

Nepotism has been pervasive for decades, but in recent years, it has become a renewed topic of debate. We often recognize the names of celebrated actors echoed in their children, nieces, or nephews, knowing that while they may be talented, they also benefit from the power of a Good Family Name. Nepotism in Hollywood is blatant, and until recently, few tried to hide these family connections. On the contrary, having a recognizable name is often seen as a badge of honour—a legacy that grants access and influence. But beyond the entertainment industry, other fields continue to sell us the dream of “meritocracy,” insisting that success is purely a matter of talent and hard work. It’s a comforting narrative that leads us to believe that if we don’t succeed, it’s because our projects weren’t good enough, or we lacked the necessary skill—not because the system is designed to favour those who start off with built-in advantages. And if we do succeed, the myth of meritocracy strokes our egos, reinforcing the idea that we’ve earned our place, while those who didn’t make it simply weren’t on the same level.

For those of us who weren’t born into wealth or didn’t have connections to pave our way, the belief in possibility still lingers. We hold on to the idea that success is within reach if we just have enough talent, put in the effort, and maybe catch a little luck. This belief comes with an expectation: we feel entitled to every opportunity that comes our way because we’ve invested time, money, and energy into doing everything “right” and pursuing our passions relentlessly. But is that really how it works?

Who gets to tell stories?

Recently, I’ve found myself delving into the backgrounds of contemporary writers to better understand what underpins their success. While I’m not looking to become a writer myself, I’m curious about the material conditions that are necessary to become a respected author and what really shapes the opportunities they receive, covertly influencing the industry’s decisions about which stories are deemed worth telling—and selling. More often than not, the answer is rooted in a single factor: class privilege.

One useful concept here is cultural capital, a term coined by the French sociologist Pierre Bourdieu. It refers to the skills, qualifications, and tastes that society deems legitimate and valuable—such as prestigious degrees or aligning with the cultural elite’s preferences. In the literary world, the amount of cultural capital a writer possesses often determines how easily they can navigate the publishing industry. Authors like R.F. Kuang or Ottessa Moshfegh, for example, have significant cultural capital. Both attended top-tier schools that provided not only formal qualifications but also access to influential literary networks, which acted as a “fast pass” to publication and critical acclaim.

Bourdieu also introduces the idea of educational capital, which refers specifically to formal qualifications, like degrees from Ivy League universities. However, this is only part of the picture. People from privileged backgrounds often inherit intangible advantages, such as a “nose” for spotting the right opportunities, giving them a strategic edge. This is evident in examining how writers from wealthy or well-connected families frequently find their way into elite institutions and, subsequently, into prestigious positions in the literary world.

This ideal of meritocracy, which defends that merit outweighs money and that class, race, gender, disability, and other facets of identity are secondary to raw skill, is an appealing story—yet ultimately a fantasy.

Consider the case of R.F. Kuang. Admittedly, I haven’t read her books, as they aren’t the kind of literature I gravitate toward, though Yellowface has piqued my interest. The novel’s satirical portrayal of a publishing industry that often favours white authors over authors of color is timely and necessary. However, despite its critique, Yellowface appears to inadvertently reinforce the idea of meritocracy: that if you get published, it’s because your talent has triumphed over all other obstacles. This ideal of meritocracy, which defends that merit outweighs money and that class, race, gender, disability, and other facets of identity are secondary to raw skill, is an appealing story—yet ultimately a fantasy.

Kuang’s educational background tells a different story. She attended Greenhill School in Dallas, Texas—a prestigious prep school where annual tuition runs from $31,800 to $39,770 for grades K-12. As YouTuber WithCindy pointed out in her video on Yellowface and the publishing industry, Kuang’s attendance at Greenhill reflects her family’s financial stability and ability to invest heavily in her education for over a decade. To suggest that this didn’t give her a competitive advantage throughout her academic and professional career would be disingenuous. Unsurprisingly, she went on to study at Cambridge, Oxford, and now Yale—some of the most elite institutions in the world. While Kuang may credit her success to literary skill alone, this view overlooks the crucial role of financial stability and institutional access in shaping careers.

Ottessa Moshfegh, another favourite among BookTok readers, also comes from a background of considerable privilege. She attended Commonwealth School in Boston, a private preparatory school with a small student-to-teacher ratio (around 155 students and 35 faculty members), a stark contrast to overcrowded, underfunded public schools. A Commonwealth education, however, comes with a price tag of $57,625 per year.

Moshfegh’s path followed the well-trodden route of the literary elite: a BA in English from Barnard College and an MFA in Literary Arts from Brown University. While her talent for exploring the grotesque and pushing the boundaries of contemporary fiction is undeniable, it would be naïve to ignore how access to these educational institutions facilitated not only her literary development but also her ability to network, eventually paving the way to her success in publishing.

Talent, of course, isn’t exclusive to upper-class writers. Nor is the opportunity to get published. However, writers who don’t fit the default social category of Western society (male, white, well-off) are often expected to foreground their marginalization in their work. Their value in the industry is frequently tied to offering a voyeuristic lens into struggles, pain, or resilience for an audience that exists outside those realities. For writers with the “right” background, however, the creative landscape is far more open; they are free to write about anything and explore the depth of their imagination.

Rooney’s Quiet Radicalism

Sally Rooney has often been criticized for the apparent lack of explicit politics in her novels, despite her self-identified Marxist ideology. Critics argue that her characters seem more absorbed in their personal relationships than in broader political struggles —something one of her characters admits to doing in Beautiful World Where Are You? (2021). Yet, it is in this very subtlety that Rooney offers a powerful critique of class disparities and the inescapable distances they create, a kind of marginalization that she has both experienced and seen.

Rooney’s work, especially in Normal People, vividly portrays a society where class and gender inequalities persistently shape even the most personal interactions, exposing how these dynamics permeate shared spaces and relationships—no matter how close or personal.

In Normal People, Rooney challenges capitalist individualism and scrutinizes meritocracy. Connell and Marianne both attend Trinity College Dublin, an institution renowned for its literary legacy. However, their experiences within this elite space are starkly different. Connell, who worked part-time during high school, feels out of place among his wealthier peers. In contrast, Marianne, despite her affluent yet abusive upbringing, moves through Trinity with relative ease, thanks to the cultural and social capital she’s inherited. For Connell, his lack of economic and social capital begins to be replaced by cultural and symbolic capital, assets he quickly recognizes as essential to navigating the academic and social landscape. Despite Marianne and Connell’s deep connection, the unbridgeable gap between their class backgrounds remains, illustrating how these elements shape even the most intimate relationships. Rooney’s work, especially in Normal People, vividly portrays a society where class and gender inequalities persistently shape even the most personal interactions, exposing how these dynamics permeate shared spaces and relationships—no matter how close or personal.

Connell’s moment of triumph comes when he receives a scholarship—a hard-won opportunity, one that he cannot afford to pass up. Marianne, on the other hand, stays in Dublin, settling into a “normal” life only after her mother withdraws financial support. This divergence highlights the pressures of economic insecurity: for Connell, every opportunity must be seized, while for Marianne, who comes from wealth, there is the luxury of choice, even if that choice leads to a seemingly mundane existence. Much like R.F. Kuang and Ottessa Moshfegh, whose cultural capital opened doors in the literary world, Marianne’s privilege allows her to navigate life with a freedom that Connell cannot afford. The meritocratic system, as illustrated in both fiction and real life, rarely accounts for the deeper inequalities at play.

Rooney’s work demonstrates her intimate understanding of the cruelty of a system where opportunities are unevenly distributed, often determining one’s path before they even have the chance to choose it themselves.

Although R.F. Kuang and Ottessa Moshfegh are real authors navigating the contemporary literary landscape, while Normal People is a work of fiction, the novel offers a striking reflection of the realities that individuals like Connell face in the real world. I’m not oblivious to the fact that these two writers are real people, with complexities and challenges beyond the generalizations made here. Rooney’s work demonstrates her intimate understanding of the cruelty of a system where opportunities are unevenly distributed, often determining one’s path before they even have the chance to choose it themselves. Her portrayal of class struggle, cultural capital (or lack thereof), and the weight of privilege reflect a deep awareness of a society that is fundamentally structured to benefit those who possess it. Rooney’s fiction, in this way, exposes the deep inequalities embedded in even the most personal choices and relationships, something which this article has hopefully also achieved.

Dismantling the meritocracy myth

I haven’t examined the backgrounds of contemporary writers to imply that they’re not talented or underserving of their success. They absolutely are, and their works are deserving of publication and recognition. Instead, I’ve highlighted these examples to illustrate how entrenched class privilege remains within the arts—and how it’s still (mostly) the same groups who receive the bulk of opportunities. While narratives of meritocracy are continuously promoted, the reality is that access to opportunities in the literary field (and elsewhere) is unevenly distributed, heavily skewed in favor of those who possess cultural, social, and, most importantly, financial capital.

This systemic imbalance calls for a more critical approach to understanding how talent is both cultivated and rewarded, and who we choose to elevate in these spaces. It’s not enough to celebrate the success stories without acknowledging the barriers that prevent others from even entering the conversation. As long as class continues to shape access to education, mentorship, and the time required to hone one’s craft, the ideal of meritocracy will remain elusive—a dream far removed from the lived realities of those struggling to carve out a space in literature.

Confront the myth of meritocracy and push for more equitable structures that provide true opportunities for those outside the traditional power structures. Only then can we talk of a literary work that is equal to all.