Jeffrey Kaplan doesn't just summarize a 18th-century philosopher; he exposes a fatal flaw in the modern obsession with calculating the 'greater good.' By reframing Immanuel Kant's complex deontology through the lens of consent, Kaplan argues that some actions are morally forbidden not because they cause pain, but because they rely on deception that the victim could never accept. This distinction offers a sharp, necessary counterweight to the utilitarian logic that often dominates policy debates today.
The Architecture of Duty
Kaplan begins by stripping away the academic jargon that usually obscures Kant's work, noting that while the original texts are notoriously dense, the core principle is surprisingly accessible. He relies on the interpretation of philosopher Onora O'Neal to distill the "categorical imperative" into a single, actionable rule: "Never use a person as a mere means." This is not a prohibition on using people at all; as Kaplan points out, we constantly use others as means to our ends, such as when a customer interacts with a bank teller to withdraw money. The distinction lies in the word "mere." Kaplan explains that using someone as a "mere means" occurs only when you involve them in a scheme of action "to which they could not in principle consent."
This framing is effective because it shifts the moral metric from outcomes to the integrity of the interaction itself. Kaplan illustrates this with the example of an insincere promise: if I promise to attend your ballet recital while secretly planning to stay home, I am manipulating your trust. "If the promise is accepted, then the person to whom it was given must be ignorant of what the promiser's intention maxim really is," Kaplan writes. The moral failure isn't that I missed the recital; it's that I constructed a reality where you could not possibly agree to the terms of our interaction if you knew the truth.
"It is to use someone as a mere means is to involve them in a scheme of action to which they could not in principle consent."
The Consent Test
The practical application of this theory, according to Kaplan, involves a two-step mental exercise. First, one must identify the "maxim"—the general intention behind an action, stripped of specific details like time or place. Second, one must ask if everyone involved could logically consent to that maxim. Kaplan applies this rigorously to the classic "sheriff example," a scenario often used to defend utilitarianism. In this case, a sheriff must decide whether to frame an innocent person to stop a violent riot that would kill many.
Utilitarianism would likely demand the framing of the innocent person to minimize overall suffering. Kant's theory, as presented by Kaplan, demands the opposite. The sheriff cannot frame the innocent person because the victim could never consent to being falsely accused. Furthermore, even the mob, who desire justice, would not consent to a system where the innocent are framed, as that undermines the very concept of justice they seek. "The person who you would frame could never agree, could never consent to the form of action of framing someone," Kaplan argues. This leads to a stark conclusion: the moral law prohibits the action regardless of the catastrophic consequences of inaction.
Critics might note that this rigid adherence to consent can lead to counterintuitive results in extreme emergencies, where a single lie might save thousands of lives. However, Kaplan's point is that the theory is designed to protect the individual's autonomy even when the collective screams for sacrifice.
The Limits of Permission
It is crucial to understand, as Kaplan emphasizes, that this moral framework is about permission, not perfection. Just because an action passes the consent test doesn't make it virtuous; it simply means it isn't forbidden. "Notice that I just said permitted, right? It doesn't mean that that action is great," Kaplan writes, distinguishing between actions that are merely allowed and those that are morally praiseworthy. This nuance prevents the theory from becoming a checklist for minimal compliance, instead positioning it as a floor below which no moral agent should fall.
The strength of Kaplan's summary lies in its ability to translate abstract philosophy into a test for real-world integrity. By focusing on the "maxim" rather than the outcome, he forces the reader to confront the hidden intentions behind their daily interactions. Whether in business, law, or personal relationships, the question remains: could the other party truly agree to this arrangement if they knew my true plan?
Bottom Line
Kaplan's analysis succeeds in making Kant's deontology a viable, rigorous alternative to outcome-based ethics, proving that the integrity of the process matters as much as the result. The argument's greatest vulnerability is its potential inflexibility in life-or-death scenarios where strict adherence to non-deception could lead to greater harm. Readers should watch for how this "consent-based" framework applies to modern institutional power dynamics, where the ability to give informed consent is often structurally compromised.