It’s an old, persistent idea: war is good for the economy. We hear it in historical anecdotes—how World War II ended the Great Depression—and in the grim logic that conflict creates jobs, drives innovation, and stimulates industrial production. On a spreadsheet, this can even look true. Government spending skyrockets, factories hum, and unemployment often falls. But this argument contains a catastrophic oversight, one that confuses activity with prosperity, and ultimately forgets the fundamental purpose of an economy.
Yes, war can jolt a specific economic sector. It can redirect a nation’s entire productive capacity toward a single, devastating purpose. But this is not creation; it is the most drastic form of misallocation. Resources poured into tanks, bombs, and bullets are resources not spent on hospitals, schools, infrastructure, or consumer goods that raise living standards. The labor of brilliant engineers focused on munitions is labor not focused on renewable energy, medical tech, or solving chronic social problems. We are running the engine at full speed, but in reverse.This brings us to the core paradox, a lesson etched into the ashes of every conquered city from Carthage to Berlin: You cannot destroy everything, because there is nothing left to rule over.
An economy is not an abstract concept. It is the sum total of human ingenuity, physical capital, trust, and daily cooperation. It is the power grid, the seaport, the farm, the university, the trade route, the market square. War, especially total war, burns this capital. It kills the skilled worker, flattens the factory, salts the field, and shatters the networks of trust and law that allow commerce to function. A ruler—or a nation—that “wins” a war of utter devastation inherits a desert. Their prize is a wasteland that will take generations and immense wealth to rebuild, wealth that was just incinerated in the conflict.
The 20th century’s clearest example isn’t a victory, but a loss. Consider the post-1945 Marshall Plan. The United States, recognizing that a destitute and chaotic Europe was a threat to global stability and a useless trading partner, spent the modern equivalent of hundreds of billions of dollars rebuilding its former enemies. Why? Because a functioning, prosperous Europe was more valuable than a subjugated, ruined one. The victors understood that real power comes from presiding over a productive system, not a pile of rubble.
This is the broken window fallacy, scaled to a horrific degree. The parable tells of a boy who breaks a baker’s window. A bystander argues it’s an economic boost—the glazier gets paid! What this ignores is the opportunity cost: the baker would have spent that money on a new suit, enriching the tailor. Society is left with a window (replacing one it already had) instead of both a window and a suit. War is the breaking of all windows, all suits, and the baker’s shop itself. The “stimulus” of rebuilding is just the frantic, impoverished attempt to get back to where you were before you started breaking things.
True, lasting economic growth springs from productivity gains: better tools, educated workers, efficient logistics, peaceful trade, and technological breakthroughs that solve human problems. War might accidentally spin off a few such innovations (jet engines, the internet), but these are costly byproducts of a machine designed for waste. Peaceful investment achieves the same ends without the annihilation.
In the end, the “war is good for the economy” myth mistakes a desperate, destructive fever for health. It is the logic of a parasite that hasn’t yet learned not to kill its host. A thriving economy is a complex, delicate ecosystem built on creation, exchange, and cooperation. You can mobilize it for war, but only at the direst cost. And if you burn it all down, you haven’t won a thing. You’ve just proven you’re a better destroyer than a builder—and history is written by the builders who pick up the pieces.
