On most afternoons, students will spread small illustrated cards across their notebooks at a table in Columbia University’s Butler Library, much like someone might sort a deck before a poker game. These aren’t poker cards, though. Each one has a simplified framework on the back and the face of a theorist on the front, such as Derrida, Spivak, Bell Hooks, or Foucault. A syllabus is being annotated by someone nearby. Another person is discreetly attempting to exchange a first-edition Judith Butler card for a duplicate Althusser. It sounds almost ridiculous. However, as you watch it develop, you get the impression that something truly fascinating is taking place.
The experiment by Columbia to directly incorporate theory trading cards into course curricula began rather modestly. Concerned about students’ dwindling interest in complex theoretical texts, a few humanities professors started matching physical cards to their reading lists. Even though the approach seemed unorthodox, the reasoning was clear: students who find it difficult to open a 400-page Foucault anthology might still pick up a card, read three sentences about disciplinary power, and feel something click. After being viewed as bureaucratic paperwork for a long time, the syllabus evolved into a sort of treasure map.
This might sound like a gimmick. When the idea spread, that was the initial response from a number of faculty members from various departments. However, enrollment statistics from Columbia’s humanities programs present a compelling narrative. Enrollment in English and history programs nationwide has decreased by about one-third over the last ten years; this trend has been widely documented and does not appear to be reversing. That pressure hasn’t spared Columbia. The cards weren’t created in a vacuum; rather, they resulted from real institutional concern about whether or not students still value theoretical thinking at all.
The bundling model is intriguing for reasons other than its novelty. The mechanics are the problem. The theory card system functions by generating layered incentives, which is loosely based on how financial dealers bundle trades across asset classes to foster client relationships. This dynamic has been documented in recent market research on over-the-counter trading. Almost by coincidence, a student who finishes a card collection by the end of the semester has come across fifteen important theorists. The collection becomes social in and of itself. Students argue over whether Bourdieu should have been ranked higher than Gramsci, compare holdings, and discuss the rankings listed on each card. The syllabus becomes more akin to an intellectual game than a checklist.
A more comprehensive context is worth taking into account. The Open Syllabus Project at Columbia University, which compiled nearly seven million syllabi from 2,500 universities, made clear what higher education actually teaches and how much of the theoretical tradition is subtly abandoned semester by semester due to enrollment pressure. In some ways, the trading card system seems to be a reaction to that discovery. A subdued acknowledgement that students’ attention isn’t being held by the traditional syllabus alone as it once was.
It’s really unclear if this extends beyond a single campus. At a large public university where most important decisions are made based on pragmatism, what works in Butler Library, surrounded by PhD students and theoretically curious undergraduates, might not work the same way. However, it seems worthwhile to pay attention to the underlying instinct that learning requires texture, physicality, and a reason to care beyond the grade. A card on a table can sometimes accomplish more than a footnote could.
