Once up­on a time, there lived an Em­per­or who prid­ed him­self on vi­sion­ary lead­er­ship. His min­is­ters called him a man of progress, his sup­port­ers hailed him as a cham­pi­on of the peo­ple and his ad­vis­ers, well paid for their wis­dom, as­sured him that he was al­ways right.

How­ev­er, like all Em­per­ors be­fore him, he had a pe­cu­liar habit. Every few years—usu­al­ly just be­fore the sea­son of votes—he would em­bark on “The Great Un­veil­ing.” This was a sa­cred tra­di­tion, a per­for­mance where un­fin­ished projects were pa­rad­ed be­fore the peo­ple as daz­zling achieve­ments.

And so, one bright morn­ing, as the ra­dio talk shows buzzed, the Em­per­or stood be­fore his lat­est tri­umph: a brand-new hos­pi­tal block in the heart of the king­dom.