There is something that jars in the way this discussion is conducted. Not because the figures are necessarily incorrect – on the contrary, they point to something real – but because the framework surrounding them is too narrow. It says something about returns, but almost nothing about power. And it is precisely there that it begins, what is missing.

For what, in fact, is the Oil Fund (Oljefondet) today? Formally, it is the Government Pension Fund Global (Statens pensjonsfond utland). In practice, it is the world’s largest sovereign wealth fund. But in reality – if one follows the flows of money, the lines of decision-making, and the incentives – it has become an instrument within a global financial ecosystem in which national anchoring is gradually effaced.

The question “are we speaking of the Tangen Fund (Tangen-fondet)?” is therefore not polemical. It is precise.

For when 40 per cent of the staff is recruited internationally, that is not in itself the problem. The problem is that this occurs within a system in which capital management is not neutral. It is value-laden, network-based, and increasingly ideologically coordinated. Capital does not move freely; it is moved by people with relationships, backgrounds, and loyalties. And these are rarely random.

It is here that the lines of connection become interesting. Not necessarily because anyone is “conspiring”, but because the system favours a particular type of competence, experience, and network. The same names, the same milieus, the same mindsets recur – from Wall Street to the City of London, from BlackRock to central banks, from ESG frameworks to sovereign funds.

When these milieus also set the premises for what constitutes “responsible management”, what constitutes “risk”, and what constitutes “long-term value”, then it is no longer a purely technical question. Then it is a question of who defines reality.

And then we arrive at the uncomfortable point: Who, in fact, owns the decisions?

Formally, it is the Storting that sets the framework. But in practice, the scope for action is delegated to a management culture that operates with considerable autonomy. It is not merely a technical delegation – it is an epistemic delegation. One has relinquished the understanding of what constitutes “correct” management to an expert milieu that is to a limited extent democratically anchored.

It is here that the parallel to aristocracy is not rhetoric, but structure.

For aristocracy was never merely a question of titles. It was a question of access. To knowledge. To capital. To decision-making space. And when these three factors are gathered in a closed circuit, one obtains a form of power that is highly robust – precisely because it presents itself as technical and necessary.

Meanwhile, something happens to capital itself.

Norway in practice exports its real-economic wealth – oil and gas – and receives financial claims in return. These claims are invested globally, and the returns are used to finance an ever-expanding public consumption. That sounds sustainable, but it is not necessarily so.

For this is the core of what is classically termed “Dutch disease” – not merely exchange rates and competitiveness, but a deeper structural dependence on capital income rather than value creation. The state grows, not because it produces more, but because it redistributes more.

And then the return becomes decisive.

If the management that legitimises this model simultaneously underperforms against a passive, monetary benchmark such as gold – then it is not merely an investment problem. Then it is a system problem.

Gold in this respect is not interesting because it “yields returns”. It does not in the traditional sense. But it measures something else: purchasing power over time, independent of political decisions and financial structures. It is a yardstick, not a strategy.

When the value of the fund is halved when measured in gold, it says something fundamental: that the return is to a large extent nominal, not real. That it is dependent on the same system that also defines inflation, interest rates, and asset prices.

In other words: one is playing a game in which the rules and the measurement of results are controlled by the same actors.

And then we return to the point of departure.

This is not primarily about Nicolai Tangen as a person. It is about a structure in which decisions of enormous significance are taken within a system that is partially decoupled from the population it is intended to serve.

That is why the question of impartiality (habilitet) is not merely legal, but civilisational. It is not about breaches of rules, but about direction. About loyalty. About what actually underlies the allocation of capital.

For in the final instance, this is simple:

Either the Oil Fund is an instrument for the Norwegian people, anchored in national sovereignty and real preservation of value.

Or it is a component in a larger, global financial machinery, in which Norway contributes capital – but not necessarily governance.

There exists no neutral midpoint between these two.

And that, perhaps, is the most disquieting aspect of all: that we pretend that there is.