What is Law – and What Is Its Foundation?

Why do rights exist? This seemingly simple question takes us to the origins of legal thinking: Rights do not arise solely from power, agreement, or societal consensus—they stem from existence itself. A person is born and thus possesses the right to exist. This right is not granted; it derives from the very fact of existence. And because every person is brought into the world by other people, a commonwealth emerges from this chain of births—a construct greater than any society: humanity.

This commonwealth of “humanity” holds its own right to exist—not in the juridical sense of a legal entity, but as a necessary condition for individual existence. Respecting human existence inherently entails respecting the existence of humanity.

Rights, therefore, have a clear purpose: They serve the preservation and development of existence. This purpose crystallizes into two fundamental imperatives:

• Avoid harmful behavior toward existence,
• Promote and secure existence where it is threatened or has potential to flourish.

Every right only makes sense if it serves this purpose. A right that loses its connection to existence becomes hollow—it lacks substance.

Yet a right alone is not enough. It requires an entity willing to commit to guaranteeing this right. Without duty, there is no guarantee; without guarantee, there is no right. Rights can only be effectively secured through subdivisions of the human commonwealth—be it through communities or societies. They take on the duty to respect existence and enforce rights.

This understanding forms the framework: Rights arise from existence, serve its protection, and require a duty to ensure them. Within this threefold structure lies the foundation of every responsible concept of justice.

Within the framework of the right to exist, people appear not only as individuals but also as groups—either as Gemeinschaften (communities) or Gesellschaften (societies). This distinction, as established by Ferdinand Tönnies in his social philosophy, is crucial for understanding respective forms of law.

Communities—for example, families, villages, or religious groups—are based on closeness, familiarity, and shared life practices. They are organic, not constructed. Within such organically formed entities, laws arise not through conscious enactment but through lived practice: customary law. It is founded on custom, tradition, and moral values and derives its legitimacy from collective recognition. Communities “live within the law”—they do not require formal legislation to understand what is right.

Societies, on the other hand—for instance, states, markets, or organizations—are founded on functional relationships, purposefulness, and abstraction. They are constructed, not organic. In their context, laws arise not from tradition but through conscious enactment: positive law. It is written, institutionally anchored, and legitimized through procedures. Societies “operate through the law”—without formalized rules, their complexity would be unmanageable.

The categorization can be systematically represented:

From this, it follows: The natural law of existence initially establishes a claim to respect, which is concretized communally in customary law and articulated societally in positive law. These three levels do not contradict each other; instead, they form a progression: from the original existence, through lived togetherness, to structured order.

Thus, positive law is ultimately bound to the right to exist—and must never forget its roots in the lived commonwealth.

In contemporary language, it is often said that a human is the bearer of rights—as a person, as a subject, as a citizen. However, in the tradition of legal philosophy referenced by Georg Jellinek, which has its roots in Roman law, the emphasis is not on the person but on the status. Not mere human existence, but rather the legal position within an order establishes the attribution of rights.

A status is a specific legal position within a social or state framework. It determines which rights and duties an individual possesses. Or, to put it concisely:
It’s not, “I have rights because I am a person,” but rather, “I have rights because I hold a specific status.”

In Roman law, this distinction was systematically developed. The categories of “free person,” “slave,” or “Roman citizen” defined different legal positions—even though, in all cases, they referred to human beings. The decisive difference lay not in being human but in the status, which was linked to specific rights and obligations.

A status is more than a social role. It is a legally constituted relationship that formally defines who holds which legal claims or obligations. For instance, a king does not rule simply as a human being but by virtue of their status as king. The person may die, but the status endures—as expressed in the well-known principle:
“The king is dead—long live the king.”

This means: The office remains; the status is reoccupied by a successor, and the associated rights and duties are preserved. Sovereignty resides not in the person but in the law.

This perspective remains fundamental to modern law. It allows for the distinction of various statuses within a single life: One can simultaneously be a citizen, an employee, a parent, and a member of an association—each with its own rights and duties. Order does not arise from subjective assessments but from objective assignments.

This distinction between person and status gives law its structure and comprehensibility. It demonstrates: Rights are not arbitrary but are based on formalized, verifiable conditions. This creates validity, equality, and security—not by degrading the human being but through the clarity of regulations.

In Jellinek’s thought, it becomes clear: Rights are never merely personal claims but are always an expression of a legal position within the commonwealth. The status enforces the claim—not mere existence.

Rights are commonly seen as protective norms or individual claims. Yet, this perspective falls short if one seeks to truly understand the nature of law. This is because every right inherently implies a duty. Without a duty to guarantee the right, it remains ineffective—a mere assertion without force.

A right is not an isolated possession but rather a relationship between subjects. Whoever holds a right always holds it in relation to others, who must either refrain from certain actions or enable certain possibilities. A right to life means others are prohibited from killing—and societal structures must exist to protect and uphold life. Only this duty-side transforms a proclaimed right into an actual one.

This becomes especially clear in the logical formula:
Why – Therefore – Then

• Why? Because a person exists, they possess a right to live.
• Therefore: This right must be recognized and protected.
• Then: Conditions must be created to enable life—through specific actions, institutions, and considerations.

This logic is explicitly articulated in the Basic Law of the Federal Republic of Germany. Article 14, paragraph 2 states:
“Property obliges. Its use shall also serve the public good.”

Here, it is evident: Property—as a subjective right—necessarily entails a duty. This duty is not externally imposed but arises from the social function of the right itself. Those who “own” property inherently take on responsibility—toward the public, toward the commonwealth.

This understanding applies to all rights if one views them as a type of status-bound property. Rights are not simply possessed because one is human but are assigned through a specific legal status. This idea was clearly expressed by Georg Jellinek: Not the person, but the status they hold grants rights. For example, someone is “king” not by virtue of their personality but through their legal status—which comes with rights as well as duties.

This status logic also applies to legal persons. A legal entity is granted rights not because it is a being but because a status has been conferred upon it—through registration, law, or recognition. Thus, it becomes the bearer of rights—but only through legal fiction, not existence. Consequently, rights can emerge through the assignment of status—even when no existential subject is present. At the same time, living beings without status may fall outside the protection of the law.

This problematic asymmetry is particularly evident in Jellinek’s theory of “normative power of the factual.” It states: A right, order, or norm only gains normative validity when it is factually effective. It is not enough to draft a law or proclaim a right—it must also be enforceable. Jellinek’s insight highlights a profound truth:
Law needs duty—and duty needs power.

Without a powerful duty entity, any right remains formal and hollow. Without awareness of the duty-side, the law degenerates into illusion. Whoever takes rights seriously must also ask: Who feels obligated? Who guarantees validity? Who protects the existence from which the right emerges?

Thus, it becomes clear: Rights and duties are not opposites but two sides of the same reality. Rights safeguard dignity—duties guarantee their validity. Only their unity makes law a sustainable foundation for the human commonwealth.

In modern legal systems, rights can be attributed not only to natural persons—that is, human beings—but also to constructed entities known as “legal persons.” These abstract legal entities are assigned a status through which rights and duties are allocated to them. Legal persons are not living beings; they have no consciousness, subjectivity, or natural existence—yet they are granted a legal form of existence.

The key point is this: Rights are carried not by the being itself but by the assigned status. Rights do not arise from mere existence but from legal attribution. An association, a company, or a foundation—these entities “possess” rights only insofar as a specific status has been granted to them through registration, recognition, or legislation. The status replaces natural existence as the bearer of legal capacities.

This structure inherently creates a fundamental tension: On one hand, it allows law to act flexibly and functionally, for example in economic activities, administration, or organizational frameworks. On the other hand, it raises a critical issue: Rights can be generated through the assignment of status—even if there is no existential being in the literal sense.

This has far-reaching consequences. It enables the possibility of granting a legal status—and thereby rights and duties—even to non-human entities such as artificial intelligence. An AI would not “in itself” hold rights, but through legal fiction, it could be made into a “legal person.” The status would carry the rights, not the AI as a being.

This logic leads to two profound insights:

1. A status can carry rights—independent of existence.
2. Rights are no longer necessarily tied to life, the capacity to suffer, or self-awareness, but solely to the construction of a normative framework.

A being without status can be without rights.

Those who lack an assigned status—such as stateless persons, unrecognized individuals, or those without documentation—easily fall outside the protection of the law, even though they exist as human beings.

This asymmetry between status and existence highlights the necessity of continually tying law back to its foundational principle: the right to existence. Only then can the law avoid becoming self-serving and privileging entities that lack responsibility, vulnerability, and community.

Thus, the legal person is both a powerful and dangerous construct. It can enable, regulate, and relieve—but also dehumanize, disconnect, and diminish. Precisely for this reason, every assignment of legal status must be critically examined—not whether it is functional, but whether it serves the protection and promotion of existence.

Law operates under the premise that rules, prohibitions, and permissions can create order. However, this premise reaches an absurd boundary when it begins to confuse itself with the realities of natural laws. No matter how normative law strives to be—nature has no opinions, only principles.

Legal norms exist because humans have established them. Natural laws exist because they cannot do otherwise. The difference: The former can be negotiated, changed, interpreted, or ignored. The latter take effect—whether one wants them to or not.

Yet, we repeatedly witness attempts to circumvent natural laws through legal regulations. Here are a few examples that might make you chuckle—or shudder:

• A parliament declares: “We will achieve carbon neutrality by 2030.” – without consideration of thermodynamic processes, material cycles, infrastructure, or social behavior. It sounds bold but is often little more than legislative magic in the realm of physics.
• A ministry issues a regulation to “densify urban green spaces while simultaneously reducing sealed areas”—essentially: more houses and more lawns on the same square meter. A sort of legal squaring of the circle.
• An administration mandates energy conservation by requiring thicker walls from builders—yet in an area where groundwater erodes every basement wall within ten years. The regulation addresses heat loss but ignores the capillary action of the soil.
• A government agency orders the “acceleration of digital administrative processes”—without data centers, IT staff, or software. It forgets: Bits cannot simply be conjured into existence by political will. This is not normative; it is electronic.

All these examples illustrate: Law operates within a framework limited by nature. And this framework cannot be expanded by words.

Philosophy refers to this as the “normative power of the factual.” What Georg Jellinek applied to political reality—that a norm only becomes effective when it is factually recognized—applies in its most radical form to nature:

The factual is not merely normative—it is absolute.

Nature allows for no exceptions, no moral excuses, no political declarations. Those who legislate against it face no court proceedings—but rather feedback, resistance, or outright failure.

The lesson:
Law may aspire to much, but it must not be blind to what is real.
It requires humility in the face of the limits of feasibility—not illusions of omnipotence.
Human dignity is inviolable—gravitational force, unfortunately, is too.

If politics and law are to take themselves seriously, they must view this boundary not as a restriction but as a compass. Not everything is malleable—but much is possible when reality is not treated as an adversary.

In today’s legal system, creativity and innovation are often incentivized through protection mechanisms. Artists are granted copyright, and companies secure patents. Both are forms of intellectual property assigned to specific actors through legal status—either to a natural person (copyright) or a legal entity (patent).

This status, however, is not neutral. It not only confers exclusivity but also creates structural barriers: others cannot freely access, develop, improve, or distribute the protected property. What was intended as protection can easily become an obstacle to innovation—precisely in areas where knowledge needs to be shared, combined, and interconnected.

The motivation behind these protection systems is typically extrinsic: one engages in creative or research activities to derive exclusive claims from the results later. In contrast, the paradigm of the Open Source or Creative Commons movement centers on intrinsic motivation. Here, development, sharing, and improvement occur not to exert control, but because one can, because one wishes to contribute, because knowledge is seen as belonging to everyone.

This is where the interplay of rights and duty resurfaces. The status granted to a work or invention through copyright or patent is not self-generated. It is attributed to another status—a creator, a company, or a corporation. However, once exclusivity is derived from this, an obligation also arises: property imposes duties. Intellectual property, too, must serve the common good. This principle is not only enshrined in Article 14 of the German Constitution but also emerges from a deeper ethical logic:

No property, whether material or immaterial, exists independently of the commonwealth (Gemeinwesen).

This becomes especially clear when considering how every form of innovation originates. It is never created from nothing; it is rooted in language, symbols, prior technical work, theories, infrastructures, and cultural contexts. Or, as Isaac Newton expressed it:
“If I have seen further than others, it is by standing on the shoulders of giants.”

A writer uses an alphabet, a language, and narratives that have evolved over time. A musician employs a tonal system that is centuries old. A company developing medication relies on foundational academic research, biochemical knowledge, and global networks.

Or, to put it differently:
Every creator is simultaneously an heir. Every innovator is also a user.

Intellectual property thus ceases to appear as individual achievement and becomes a collective continuation of a cultural and technical process.

Your example underscores this: A car only has value if there are roads for it to drive on and an infrastructure to support it. The value does not lie in the product alone—it lies in its societal context, created collectively.

Thus, anyone claiming patents or copyrights is entitled to do so but must acknowledge that their status is not self-sufficient. It rests on a foundation laid by many others. This does not result in expropriation but establishes a duty for openness, for sharing, for connecting back to the commonwealth that made it all possible.

After all, even the giant upon whose shoulders we stand was once just a person—carried by others.

Legal persons, such as companies, foundations, or states, are legally capable of acting—but they lack consciousness, an inner world, or moral experience. They can own property, enter into contracts, and be held liable for damages. However, they cannot feel remorse, shame, or suffering. This absence of conscience—the very element necessary for genuine responsibility—creates a unique issue.

While responsibility can be attributed to them, it is only in the sense of accountability. The statement “The company bears responsibility” actually means: People within this structure made decisions—and the structure either enabled or concealed these actions. Legal persons are only responsible if specific individuals with conscience act within their boundaries and take responsibility. Without this link, responsibility remains technical, not ethical.

This leads to a problem: When no one is personally responsible, and only a “status” is held accountable, an ethical void emerges. A company can devastate entire regions, issue apologies, pay fines—but no one within it morally failed. The status responds, but no conscience speaks. Responsibility is managed, not felt.

This logic also applies to other non-personal entities—such as artificial intelligence or animals.

Artificial intelligence can follow rules, assume tasks, and even use language that sounds like responsibility. But it remains a simulation. An AI system cannot bear responsibility because it feels nothing. It can be deactivated, reprogrammed, or isolated—but it cannot be held morally accountable.

Animals, on the other hand, have emotions and needs and can experience joy and suffering. Yet they lack moral awareness. If an animal exhibits “misbehavior,” it can be trained—but it cannot be held accountable. In extreme cases, it is killed—not as punishment, but as a safety measure.

This leads to a remarkable conclusion: Legal persons and AI could obtain rights through status—despite lacking a conscience. Animals, however, cannot, even though they can feel. This highlights the absurdity: A company has rights, but a dolphin does not. An AI may “express,” but a bird may not. A machine is declared capable of thinking, yet a sentient being remains without legal rights.

In your reasoning, this means: A status alone is insufficient. Without consciousness, there can be no genuine conscience, no moral responsibility. And without responsibility, a right is merely a formal claim. Therefore, AIs must be accounted for by humans, legal persons guided by humans, and animals protected by humans.

Because only humans can carry a conscience—and only where conscience acts does responsibility become reality.

At the beginning stands existence. Not chosen, not created, but received: I am. From this mere fact arises a right—the right to be. Yet, this alone is not enough. For existence does not exhaust itself in mere presence. It is also an awareness: I know that I am.

This awareness changes everything. It transforms existence into a relationship—to oneself, to others, to the world. And from this relationship arises the highest form of responsibility: self-commitment. Not because a law demands it. Not because an authority orders it. But because one’s own being leads to the insight: Because I am—and know that I am—I commit myself to respecting and preserving existence.

This self-commitment is the spiritual endpoint of the vast arc that spans between the individual and humanity. For anyone who becomes aware of themselves simultaneously recognizes their belonging to humanity—and, with that, their responsibility for the whole that sustains them. The individual becomes aware that they not only have rights but also the capacity to set rights—through voluntary binding, through conscious affirmation. A new dimension emerges: a right to self-commitment.

A right to voluntarily bind oneself. Not for submission, but for preservation. A right to existence—as a will to survive. This will to survive is not mere instinct. It is a conscious decision to not only maintain one’s being but also to recognize its significance. It is the yes to life—and the no to indifference.

Whoever recognizes themselves as existing also recognizes that they are vulnerable, that they are mortal, that life is not self-evident. And from this follows: I want to live—and I want life itself to endure. This stance is more than a survival drive. It is a right to meaning, a right to conscious existence, a right to self-commitment to life.

Thus, the vast arc closes: from the right to exist, through status and duty, to self-commitment. In the end, it is not law that stands, but conscience, not judgment, but insight: I am—therefore I want to live—and therefore I commit myself to protect life. For myself. For others. For humanity.

This is the true foundation of all law: a free will to self-commitment arising from the awareness of existence.

Objective law—the entirety of applicable norms—is binding within a legal framework because it is supported by institutions with enforcement power: parliaments, courts, police, administration. This power is concentrated in the state’s monopoly on force, ensuring that norms are not merely appeals but actually take effect.

International law, however, operates differently. It is formally binding but lacks a global monopoly of power capable of universally enforcing its validity. There is no global police force, no central executive, no supranational judiciary with binding authority for all. International law primarily depends on the self-commitment of states—a principle that, within national law, serves at most as a moral complement.

Within this gap, transnational corporations operate today. Due to their structure and position of power, they can essentially choose their legal frameworks. They decide in which country they register, where they file lawsuits, where they pay taxes, how they protect property, and where they circumvent standards.

This freedom of choice is not based on territoriality but on structure. The legal entity “corporation” is globally mobile, operates virtually, and functions through subsidiaries and contractual networks. This allows it to largely evade the binding effects of individual legal systems—and even more so international law.

The absurdity lies in the fact that a legal entity—which lacks its own consciousness, conscience, or will—is still regarded as an “acting subject” capable of “freely deciding” which legal framework it “chooses.” The “willingness” attributed to it is a legal construct based on organizational actions, utility calculus, or strategic interests but does not arise from an internal sense of responsibility.

This creates a new asymmetry:

• States are bound territorially and democratically legitimized.
• Corporations are globally mobile and capital-driven.
• International law is morally ambitious but structurally weak.

In this constellation, the balance shifts: Objective law loses its practical power, international law its authority—while corporations create their own reality of norms.

The solution cannot simply be “strengthening” international law without addressing the question of power. A new form of self-commitment is needed, not only for states but also for legal entities—a commitment not based on coercion but on a new form of global responsibility, arising from the awareness of existence and participation in a shared global community.

Only where power is tied to existence, where actions are not only legal but legitimized through insight, can a global law emerge that truly deserves the name.

In Georg Jellinek’s classic theory of status, a person does not simply possess rights but acquires them through a legally defined status. This status represents a form of visibility and belonging within a legal order: Those who have a status are seen—and are protected. Those without one remain legally invisible. But what happens when status is no longer granted legally, but rather algorithmically or socioeconomically?

This is precisely what we observe today in two seemingly very different phenomena: China’s Social Credit System and global social networking platforms like Facebook, Twitter (X), TikTok, or even Google. Both claim to create order—one through state evaluation, the other through supposedly neutral visibility algorithms. Yet both replace legal status with a performatively generated reputation status. In doing so, they fundamentally alter the nature of law, freedom, and individual subjectivity.

In the Social Credit System, behavioral data is continuously collected and condensed into a points-based system. Those who “behave well” gain access to services, travel, and credit. Those who are “flagged negatively” lose rights—regardless of whether they have violated any laws. Here, rights are no longer guaranteed but activated. They are not tied to humanity but to behavior.

Social networks operate in a very similar way: They make visibility—and thereby societal relevance—dependent on how users perform. More likes, more shares, and more attention mean greater visibility. And those who are more visible are deemed more relevant. But this visibility is not based on truth, responsibility, or existence—it stems from algorithmically generated success. Those who do not fit this logic disappear from the feed.

These systems present themselves as democratic: Everyone can participate. Yet they construct a second order—an order of evaluation. Only those who score high are seen. Only those who are seen have influence. And only those with influence matter. The individual is no longer perceived as a subject but as a controllable variable, a data packet with interaction value.

Thus, the classic idea of status is turned on its head: It no longer protects against exclusion but becomes its justification. Status is no longer a prerequisite for rights—it becomes the result of exploitability.

What the state once secured through norms is now done by algorithms via rankings. What once applied to the legal subject now applies to the performative user profile. This creates a new form of invisible control—seemingly voluntary, seemingly neutral, but deeply structural. And it threatens the fundamental idea of a legal order: that every person is visible, protected, and equal—regardless of their performance within the system.

The theory of status remains relevant—especially because it is being undermined. It reminds us: Rights must be guaranteed, not earned. Visibility must not be a measure of dignity. And status must not become a tool for behavioral steering. Otherwise, we lose not only the law—but humanity itself.

Punishment is a central tool of legal order, but it is more than mere sanctioning. It is an expression of a societal mechanism that responds to rule violations to restore order, trust, and the validity of law. The idea of punishment is based on a fundamental insight: those who violate a norm endanger not only the specific situation but also the trust in the system itself. Punishment seeks to repair this trust—whether through retribution, deterrence, rehabilitation, or securing public safety. It is not private revenge but a public act that underscores the binding nature of law.

What appears at first glance as a purely legal measure—judgment, sentencing, or deprivation of liberty—reveals, upon closer inspection, a deeper layer: law itself cannot execute punishment. Law articulates norms, defines sanctions, and establishes legitimacy. But in its enforcement, law relies on something else: the laws of nature.

A verdict on paper does not physically prevent anyone from leaving. Only walls, doors, chains—physical, spatial, and material elements—transform the law into an effective order. The restriction of freedom of movement is not purely a legal concept; it is a consequence of employing space, mass, and material. A prison is not a symbol but a physical construction. And this construction is based not on norms but on nature.

Other forms of punishment follow this same pattern. The compulsion to pay a fine does not solely depend on the law but on the economic principle of scarcity. Physical punishments—historically or presently—rely on the biological capacity to feel pain. The death penalty, archaic as it is, operates through gravity, biology, and mechanics. Law always depends on a world where it can leverage natural laws.

This realization is unsettling. It touches on the self-image of the modern rule of law, which perceives itself as purely normative. Yet, the harsher the law becomes, the clearer it is: it must become physically effective, or it remains abstract. Nature is the ultimate monopolist of force that every norm tacitly presupposes. It is the locus where power is executed—legitimate or otherwise.

Thus, the question of punishment is not merely a legal one but also a philosophical one: when does law begin to draw on nature—and where does that compromise its claim to humanity? A system that does not reflect on the physical foundation of punishment loses sight of what it truly does. Law does not function through words alone—it acts through the world.

Another observation is worth noting: punishment always targets humans. Legal entities—whether corporations, associations, foundations, authorities, ministries, states, or supranational organizations like the EU or the UN—can be sanctioned but cannot suffer, cannot be imprisoned, cannot be physically constrained. Their punishment remains symbolic, economic, or reputational. Only humans—as corporeal, sentient beings—can truly be punished. And this is why any theory of punishment must begin where law meets the body. For it is only there that it becomes real.

This observation circles back to status theory: rights and obligations are tied to a person’s status. Yet only humans carry this status as sentient beings with bodies, sensations, and consciousness. Legal entities have only an assigned functional status—they are legally visible but incapable of suffering. International law highlights this tension: states or institutions can be condemned but cannot be punished—not in the human sense. Where punishment does not affect the body, law remains symbolic. The limits of real punitive power thus reveal the boundary between status and existence—and remind us that every order must ultimately be thought of from the perspective of the human being.

In the history of the internet, there was a time when Novell’s IPX/SPX protocol was considered technically superior. It was efficient, fast, and a standard in many corporate networks. Yet it was replaced by the seemingly simpler TCP/IP—not because it was worse, but because it was open. This technical detail tells us more about legal systems and societies than one might initially suspect.

Openness vs. Closedness – TCP/IP vs. IPX/SPX

TCP/IP is an open, freely documented protocol. Anyone who adheres to its rules can participate, send packets, receive them, build networks. It is a protocol based on principles—transparency, accessibility, and universal scalability.

In contrast, Novell’s IPX/SPX network protocol was proprietary. It was fast, resource-efficient, and locally optimized—but closed. To “play along,” you had to be part of the system, adapt, and obtain a license.

In law, we encounter these same structures:

• Open Law: Concepts like international law, human rights, or public constitutional law—principles meant to apply universally.
• Closed Law: Corporate law, contract law among privileged entities, exclusive agreements behind closed doors.

One emphasizes participation through openness. The other prioritizes order through control.

MAC Address, IP, and Ports – A Legal Metaphor

In network logic, the MAC address is akin to existence itself: unchangeable, unique, but not automatically integrated. Only with an IP address does a device become addressable—just as a person becomes visible in legal terms through their status. Ports, in turn, are like rights and obligations—they define which functions within this status are accessible.

A person without status is like a device with a MAC address but no IP: present but not reachable. A law without an open port is like a theoretical capability that is practically blocked.

In an open TCP/IP system, anyone with a valid IP address can communicate. In a closed system, approval from a central authority is required. Rights in open systems arise from principles; rights in closed systems from belonging.

The Fall of Novell – A Lesson for Law

IPX/SPX didn’t fail because it was technically flawed. It failed because it wasn’t open. TCP/IP succeeded because it could spread, enabling participation. The same applies to legal systems: Those that restrict norms to internal circles lose connection. Those relying on closed systems eventually face isolation.

A legal system functioning like TCP/IP may be messy, sometimes vulnerable—but it lives, grows, adapts. A system like IPX/SPX can be perfect—but if it denies access, it dies from within.

Conclusion

Laws that aim to endure must embody what made TCP/IP strong: openness, accessibility, adherence to principles. They must make MAC addresses visible, assign IP addresses, and open ports—that is, recognize existence, assign status, and enable rights. Only then does existence become connected not only technically but also legally.

Just as every device in a network is part of a larger system, every person is part of a legal framework—and this framework thrives not through control but through connection.