During a U.S. Senate debate in Alaska in September, after a question about the state's fishing industry, Republican Sen. Dan Sullivan looked over at his Democratic opponent, former commercial fisherman (and former member of Congress) Mary Peltola's yes-or-no paddle before raising his own. Peltola’s campaign pounced on this, and later shared the clip on social media, joking about helping him out.
The question itself concerned fisheries management, a complicated and significant concern regarding Alaska’s economy. The moment that emerged from it had almost nothing to do with fishing or their disagreement on policy. It suggested something much simpler: Peltola knew what she was talking about. Sullivan didn't. The impact of that clip became more about preparation and competence than it did about Alaska’s fisheries.
That distinction is becoming increasingly important in American political debates. As voters lose faith in political institutions, they're looking more closely at the character of the individuals asking to lead them. Campaigns, in turn, are using debates less to establish whose policies are better and more to demonstrate whose judgment, integrity, or competence deserves voters' trust.
It's an understandable response to the political moment. Americans' confidence in major institutions remains near historic lows, with just 27 percent expressing substantial confidence in the institutions Gallup tracks. Political parties, government institutions, and campaign promises have lost much of their authority as assurances of how someone will govern.
Donald Trump's political career has made the question of character particularly consequential. His presidency has forced voters to consider not simply whether they agree with a candidate's policies, but whether that candidate will respect democratic institutions, exercise power responsibly, or use public office for personal benefit. For voters concerned about corruption and democratic backsliding, those are hardly superficial questions.
But there's a danger in making character the primary measure of a candidate. The more elections become referendums on who can be trusted with power, the less attention may be paid to what that person intends to do with it.
This year's Democratic primaries offer one glimpse of how difficult it has become to identify a consistent ideological preference among voters. Democrats nominated progressive Abdul El-Sayed for Senate in Michigan, chose the more moderate David Crowley for governor over Democratic Socialist Francesca Hong in Wisconsin, and backed progressive Lt. Gov. Peggy Flanagan over centrist Rep. Angie Craig for Senate in Minnesota. For all the debate over whether Democrats need to move left or toward the center, primary voters delivered no consistent ideological verdict. They're choosing candidates, not ideological lanes.
Debates, at first glance, seem particularly well suited to evaluating those candidates. Unlike advertisements or stump speeches, they put politicians in situations they don't entirely control. They're challenged, interrupted, confronted with uncomfortable questions. Even a short clip carries the credibility of an ostensibly unscripted encounter. Campaigns understand that credibility, too. And it's changing what they hope to accomplish onstage.
Poking for a Reaction
Debate preparation has traditionally involved mastering policy, anticipating attacks, and rehearsing answers. Those things still matter. But opposition research also offers opportunities to provoke a confrontation that appears to reveal something fundamental about an opponent: an embarrassing association, a questionable financial interest, an accusation that demands an immediate response.
Consider three exchanges from this year's Senate debates:
In Georgia, Sen. Jon Ossoff confronted Republican Rep. Mike Collins over documented controversies involving white supremacy, including former staffers' ties to white nationalists and neo-Nazi propaganda circulated by his son-in-law. Collins countered by attempting to portray Ossoff as a radical through his associations with progressive Democrats, without presenting comparable evidence of wrongdoing.
In Michigan, former GOP Rep. Mike Rogers attempted to associate El-Sayed with extremist organizations, making allegations that lacked substantiation. The foreign policy discussion became an opportunity to attach a damaging association to his opponent.
And in Maine, Democrat Troy Jackson questioned whether Sen. Susan Collins and her husband had financially benefited from the Iran war. Collins angrily demanded an apology.
The accusations differ considerably in their substance and evidentiary basis. But each exchange offered something more easily packaged than a policy disagreement: a judgment voters could make about who a candidate is – even more than what they believe.
An angry response suggests poor temperament. A hesitation suggests incompetence. Sometimes the point isn't to get an answer. It's to poke for a reaction.
And that reaction is meant to spread. Algorithms reward outrage and sensational accusations, allowing a few seconds of debate footage to reach voters who never encounter the context or correction. Campaigns can turn those moments into attack ads, fundraising appeals, and social-media posts. A complicated policy disagreement requires explanation. A clip suggesting corruption requires none.
That changes debate preparation, too. Candidates must anticipate not just attacks on their positions, but moments that could make them look dishonest, incompetent, or defensive. Time spent rehearsing those responses is time not spent addressing voters' concerns.
Debates have always shaped perceptions of character, from Nixon's appearance in 1960 to George H. W. Bush checking his watch in 1992. What's changed is how deliberately campaigns pursue those moments and how widely they can distribute them.
But what does that mean for the purpose of debates?
What Voters Still Don’t Know
Character matters. Voters deserve to know whether candidates are honest, competent, corrupt, or willing to defend democratic institutions. But exposing personal weaknesses tells us little about whether someone can lower costs, improve schools, or govern effectively.
Even participation becomes complicated. Refusing a debate can look like cowardice. Showing up can lend credibility to baseless accusations designed for viral circulation.
The larger danger is a cycle in which distrust of institutions drives voters toward personalities, campaigns respond by emphasizing character over policy, and elections become contests over who can restore faith in government rather than how they'll improve it.
But trust is not a governing agenda.
If voters leave a debate knowing who looked more trustworthy but little about what either candidate would actually do to improve their lives, what exactly has the debate accomplished?