Education has never been merely a conduit for content. From the beginning, this series has argued that education is a site where collective imaginaries take institutional form. The first post contrasted market logics of efficiency and choice with imaginaries of the common good. The second explored how institutions both embody and reshape imaginaries, drawing on Castoriadis’s distinction between the instituted and the instituting. The third turned to the transformations wrought by digitalisation, showing how infrastructures reorganise the terms of cooperation and judgment. This fourth post presses a harder claim: institutions - including technological infrastructures - are not neutral containers. They are instituting forces that actively reproduce what a society deems sayable, doable, and thinkable. Our task is to name how that reproduction happens and why it matters for pedagogy.

Following Castoriadis, we distinguish between the instituted (the stabilised norms, routines, and artefacts that make a world durable) and the instituting (the creative, world-making power that brings new forms into being). Institutions never fully settle; they sediment meanings even as they remain open to reinstitution. Castoriadis calls this dynamic the social-historical: the field of historically created meanings and practices that shape society while always remaining open to renewal (Castoriadis, 1997). Charles Taylor’s parallel account of social imaginaries emphasises how shared understandings orient what people take to be legitimate or possible in modern life (Taylor, 2004). Together these perspectives suggest that infrastructures - from bureaucratic procedures to digital platforms - are not simply tools but material crystallisations of social meaning.

When we extend this lens to the digital, the point sharpens. Platforms, protocols, and data schemas stabilise imaginaries as settings, defaults, and constraints. Critical infrastructure studies makes the stakes visible. Geoffrey Bowker and Susan Leigh Star show that classifications and standards are moral and political acts: they organise visibility and privilege some ways of life while rendering others costly or unintelligible (Bowker & Star, 1999). Lawrence Lessig famously insisted that “code is law,” meaning that architectures regulate behaviour by design, long before formal policy intervenes (Lessig, 2006). José van Dijck, Thomas Poell, and Martijn de Waal argue that we now live in a platform society, where infrastructural power seeps into public institutions, reorganising participation and value around connective and datafied logics (van Dijck, Poell & de Waal, 2018). Read together, these perspectives make a simple but unsettling claim: educational technologies act as institutions in their own right. They stabilise assumptions about time, authority, authorship, and accountability. They script the roles teachers and students can inhabit.

This framing has direct pedagogical consequences. The “hidden curriculum” of the learning management system (LMS) is not incidental; it is the ordinary operation of instituted choices. Course shells centred on content delivery, gradebook-driven assessment, analytics that privilege what is countable, and permissions models that asymmetrically allocate agency - all these are institutionalised norms encoded in software. If education as polis requires cultivating judgment with others, then pedagogy cannot be decoupled from infrastructure. To teach for democratic purposes is to participate in re-institution: selecting, configuring, or even building systems whose defaults and affordances honour dialogue, co-creation, and responsible autonomy. Recognising digital infrastructures as instituting forces is not a matter of technical literacy alone but of democratic responsibility. This post therefore sets up the practical question that will carry forward: how do educators, students, and institutions not only use but deliberately re-make their infrastructures for pedagogical ends?

In Imaginaries of the Common Good – From Market Logic to Democratic Renewal (the second post in this series), I argued that institutions and imaginaries are co-constitutive. Societies do not merely inherit institutions; they actively make and remake them out of shared meanings, norms, and narratives. Castoriadis names these meaning-structures social-imaginary significations, the background through which a society interprets itself and the world (Castoriadis, 1997). Charles Taylor’s allied notion of social imaginaries helps clarify how such understandings orient what people take to be legitimate, possible, or desirable in modern life (Taylor, 2003). Taken together, these perspectives underscore that institutions are not inert frameworks but living forms through which collective meaning is expressed and contested.

Central to Castoriadis’s account is the double character of institutions. On the one hand, they are instituted: the stabilised patterns, rules, and artefacts - curricula, grading regimes, professional codes - that render a world durable. On the other hand, they are instituting: expressions of the creative, world-making power of the social imaginary. This is what Castoriadis calls the social-historical: the field of historically created meanings that structures society while remaining open to renewal. Institutions thus never fully “close”; they reproduce meanings even as they remain available to contestation and transformation. The instituted/instituting distinction guards against two common errors: treating institutions as fate, mere repetition of norms, or treating imagination as weightless, mere ideas without form.

Taylor complements this analysis by emphasising how modern imaginaries orient social life through moral orders. While Castoriadis stresses the radical creativity of the instituting, Taylor highlights the moral horizons that guide action and give shape to institutions in modernity. In dialogue, they remind us that institutions carry both the weight of durability and the potential for novelty.

This distinction matters profoundly when we turn to technology. If imaginaries provide sense and orientation, and institutions give them form and durability, then technology must be understood not simply as tool but as institutional form. Design choices and technical standards sediment visions of time, authorship, responsibility, and value into interfaces, workflows, and defaults. Langdon Winner’s classic essay “Do Artifacts Have Politics?” captured this succinctly: technological arrangements distribute power and agency long before laws are written (Winner, 1980). Andrew Feenberg deepens this insight, showing how design stabilises particular social choices but remains open to critique and democratic intervention (Feenberg, 1999). From this perspective, technologies are not neutral supports for education but active sites where the instituted and the instituting converge.

Consider the learning management system. Its calendar functions stabilise a particular conception of time, semesterised and segmented. Its gradebook encodes assumptions about accountability and individual performance. Its permissions model scripts roles for teachers and students, asymmetrically allocating control and voice. These features exemplify the instituted: they reproduce assumptions about what education should be. Yet they are also open to instituting possibilities: they can be configured, reimagined, or even replaced in ways that honour dialogue, co-creation, and shared responsibility. Recognising this dual character is key to any effort at reclaiming agency in digital education. To ignore it is to risk mistaking infrastructures for neutral backdrops when they are, in fact, constitutive forces.

Technologies are not neutral vessels of human intention; they crystallise and circulate social meanings. As Langdon Winner observed, “artifacts have politics”: technical arrangements distribute authority, organise participation, and shape agency (Winner, 1980). Andrew Feenberg extends this, showing how design decisions stabilise particular social choices yet remain open to critique and democratic reinvention (Feenberg, 1999). In this sense, technologies function as institutions - they are not mere supports for action but durable arrangements through which imaginaries are reproduced and contested. This framing resonates directly with Castoriadis’s distinction between the instituted and the instituting: technologies sediment norms, expectations, and values, yet they remain open to reinstitution through creative practice (Castoriadis, 1997).

Critical infrastructure studies clarifies how this institutional power operates. Lawrence Lessig’s dictum that “code is law” highlights how protocols, interfaces, and defaults regulate behaviour before formal rules are written (Lessig, 2006). Geoffrey Bowker and Susan Leigh Star demonstrate that classifications and standards, often invisible, carry moral and political weight: they privilege certain practices while rendering others costly or unintelligible (Bowker & Star, 1999). Susan Leigh Star and Karen Ruhleder add that infrastructures are only noticed when they fail or are resisted, revealing the normative assumptions embedded in their design (Star & Ruhleder, 1996). Together, these perspectives reinforce the claim that technologies act as instituting arrangements that channel possibilities and delimit agency.

Educational technologies embody these dynamics in particularly sharp ways. Learning management systems stabilise conceptions of time through semester calendars and modular pacing; they encode authorship through individualised submissions and plagiarism detection; they frame accountability through gradebooks, audit trails, and analytics dashboards. Assessment platforms institutionalise outcome taxonomies and rubrics, privileging what can be measured and compared. Proctoring software, increasingly reliant on biometric monitoring and algorithmic flagging, institutionalises suspicion by recasting “academic integrity” as compliance with surveillance protocols. These technologies thus act as infrastructures of instruction, normalising particular relations between students, teachers, and institutions (Selwyn, 2022; Williamson, 2017).

The imaginaries reproduced here are specific rather than generic. Datafication projects imagine learning as measurable flows; dashboards render progress as a set of indicators to be optimised; permissions models inscribe role hierarchies; and identity systems presume compliance-ready, interoperable subjects. Research on algorithmic bias shows how such defaults reproduce wider injustices: Safiya Noble demonstrates how search engines amplify racialised stereotypes (Noble, 2018), while Ruha Benjamin describes the “New Jim Code,” where digital systems embed discriminatory logics (Benjamin, 2019). These insights underscore that the institutionalisation of educational technology is never neutral - it carries consequences for authority, accountability, and agency.

Recognising technology as institution reframes practice. The question shifts from how to use a tool to what social order the tool presupposes and performs. For educators, this means interrogating the instituted - what the LMS or proctoring system quietly makes normal - while exercising the instituting: reconfiguring settings, resisting harmful defaults, adopting open or federated alternatives, or building commons-oriented infrastructures. Technologies do not simply carry pedagogy; they help constitute it. Acknowledging this fact is the first step toward reinstituting digital environments in line with democratic, dialogical, and emancipatory purposes.

Infrastructures are not neutral backdrops. They quietly shape what can be done, said, or imagined, embedding assumptions into the very conditions of social life. What often appears as mundane classification or technical architecture is, on closer inspection, a form of institutional ordering. Geoffrey Bowker and Susan Leigh Star’s Sorting Things Out shows how classification systems valorise some perspectives while marginalising others, with consequences that often escape notice (Bowker & Star, 1999). Susan Leigh Star and Karen Ruhleder add that infrastructures tend to remain invisible until they break down or are refused, moments when their norming power is most clearly revealed (Star & Ruhleder, 1996). These insights remind us that infrastructures are not neutral supports but active sites of institutional power.

Lawrence Lessig sharpened this insight for the digital age with his well-known dictum: “code is law.” By this, Lessig meant not simply that code regulates behaviour, but that it constitutes the conditions of possibility for action in digital environments (Lessig, 2006). Protocols, defaults, and interface designs govern conduct long before formal policy intervenes. A password system enacts a boundary of identity; a permissions hierarchy scripts relations of authority; a file format standard decides which exchanges are possible. Technical design thus operates as governance by other means. To treat such code as neutral is to miss its institutional force.

Expanding the lens, José van Dijck, Thomas Poell, and Martijn de Waal argue that we now inhabit a platform society, where infrastructural power is exercised through connective platforms that mediate both everyday life and public institutions (van Dijck, Poell & de Waal, 2018). These platforms do not merely provide services; they reconfigure public values around logics of data extraction, ranking, and real-time metrics. Their analysis is especially important for education, where platform logics increasingly frame participation, visibility, and value in ways that prioritise optimisation and efficiency over democratic or dialogical purposes.

Seen through these frameworks, the institutional force of educational technologies becomes clearer. Learning management systems stabilise curricular time by embedding semester calendars and modular pacing. Their gradebooks privilege what can be quantified, reducing learning to scores that fit neatly into administrative metrics. Assessment platforms formalise outcome taxonomies and rubrics, privileging what is comparable across cohorts rather than what is meaningful in context. Proctoring systems enact “academic integrity” as a regime of surveillance, in which biometric monitoring and algorithmic flagging normalise suspicion of students. Each case illustrates how infrastructural design reproduces specific imaginaries of efficiency, accountability, and individualised performance.

Critical scholarship in education technology underscores these risks. Selwyn (2022) emphasises how infrastructures privilege managerialism over pedagogy, while Williamson (2017) traces how datafication reframes learning as measurable flows optimised through analytics. The lesson is clear: infrastructures are not neutral tools. They are institutional arrangements that stabilise particular imaginaries while excluding others. Recognising this fact is the first step toward re-instituting digital education around public values of dialogue, responsibility, and shared agency, rather than the imperatives of metrics and compliance.

In earlier posts of this series, I argued that imaginaries and institutions are co-constitutive: the ways we imagine education are stabilised in infrastructures, and those infrastructures in turn delimit what can be imagined. Nowhere is this clearer than in the case of the learning management system (LMS), which has become the paradigmatic infrastructure of higher education. While frequently framed as a neutral container for content and assessment, critical scholarship shows that LMSs actively shape pedagogy and embody a “hidden curriculum”: the tacit lessons about compliance, order, and accountability encoded into their design (Jackson, 1968; Selwyn, 2022; Knox, 2019). Lane (2009) describes this as an “insidious pedagogy,” in which the defaults and affordances of course management systems privilege conformity and standardisation over experimentation or dialogue. More recently, Williamson, Bayne and Shay (2020) demonstrate how dashboards and analytics systems extend this hidden curriculum by embedding accountability cultures and managerial oversight into everyday teaching, further entrenching the alignment of pedagogy with institutional metrics.

At their core, LMSs privilege certain practices. Content delivery is smooth: slides, documents, and recordings can be uploaded and distributed with minimal effort. Assessment is central: gradebooks, rubrics, and plagiarism-detection tools position evaluation at the centre of the learning process. Analytics are abundant: clicks, log-ins, and submission timestamps generate data trails that can be harvested and visualised. By contrast, other practices are marginalised. Dialogue is often confined to text-heavy discussion boards with limited affordances for collaborative meaning-making. Collective inquiry is difficult to sustain within architectures geared toward individualised work and graded outputs. Critical imagination - experimentation with form, method, or medium - sits uneasily in systems optimised for standardised flows (Siemens, 2004; Brown & Adler, 2008).

These patterns give rise to a hidden curriculum that is not incidental but systematic. Compliance is taught through permissions models that tightly control what students can and cannot do, through submission portals that enforce deadlines automatically, and through plagiarism-detection systems that cast suspicion on learners by default. Standardisation is naturalised in module templates, taxonomies of outcomes, and interoperability requirements that reduce learning to comparable metrics. Data extraction has become routine, with student activity tracked, aggregated, and translated into dashboards that promise insight while enacting surveillance. As Prinsloo and Slade (2017) argue in their call for responsibility in learning analytics, institutions face an “obligation to act” on the data they collect - an imperative that risks deepening surveillance and control unless counterbalanced by critical, ethical oversight. Williamson (2017) similarly shows how such data practices entrench managerial logics, aligning pedagogy ever more tightly with audit and accountability cultures. The LMS thus encodes a normative order: education as process management, audit-ready performance, and measurable output.

Linking these dynamics to wider platform logics makes their institutional character clearer. As van Dijck, Poell and de Waal (2018) emphasise, platforms are infrastructures that reorganise public values around metrics, optimisation, and real-time participation. The LMS mirrors these logics. Managerialism is reinforced by dashboards that allow administrators to monitor engagement and align teaching with institutional performance indicators. Accountability cultures are reproduced as grades, completion rates, and participation data are repurposed as proxies for quality. Educational values of dialogue, creativity, and shared inquiry risk being subordinated to logics of efficiency and compliance. In this sense, the LMS exemplifies the platformisation of education: the remaking of pedagogy in the image of managerial metrics.

Recognising this hidden curriculum is not a call to abandon digital infrastructures altogether but to politicise them. Following Jackson’s original insight that education always conveys lessons beyond its explicit curriculum, we must interrogate the defaults of the LMS, make visible what they marginalise, and reclaim space for democratic and imaginative pedagogy. Without such reinstitution, the LMS risks narrowing education to what can be uploaded, measured, and audited, leaving its most transformative purposes sidelined.

Recognising technology as institution is not only a matter of critique; it also opens the horizon of reinstitution. If infrastructures stabilise imaginaries and organise practice, they can also be reimagined and remade. Cornelius Castoriadis reminds us that institutions are never closed: they sediment meanings but remain open to the instituting power of society, the creative capacity to bring forth novelty (Castoriadis, 1997). To treat digital infrastructures in this light means seeing them not as immutable backdrops but as contingent arrangements that can be reconfigured to serve democratic and pedagogical ends.

Reinstitution requires a deliberate refusal of technological fatalism. Neil Selwyn (2022) cautions against the tendency to accept digital technologies as inevitable solutions rather than as contested social choices. Andrew Feenberg’s (1999) critical constructivism provides a complementary lens: technologies embed specific social decisions, but these can be opened to debate, redesigned, and reappropriated. This perspective shifts agency back to educators and learners, who are too often positioned as passive users of systems designed elsewhere. To reclaim agency is to act as co-creators of the infrastructures that shape pedagogy.

Moving from critique to possibility demands concrete examples. Open-source platforms such as Moodle show how communities can sustain alternatives to proprietary systems, enabling modification and shared governance (Dougiamas & Taylor, 2003; Cole & Foster, 2007). Federated systems, such as Mastodon in the social media sphere, demonstrate the viability of decentralised infrastructures that distribute control and resist centralised data extraction. Research on Mastodon highlights both its alternative governance arrangements (Gehl & Zulli, 2023) and the ways its architecture rethinks scale, abstraction, and the very meaning of “social” in social media (Zulli, Liu & Gehl, 2020). Community-driven standards - for example, IMS Global’s Learning Tools Interoperability (LTI) v1.3 and 1EdTech’s Caliper Analytics v1.2 - show how interoperability can be pursued as a public good rather than a proprietary lock-in (IMS Global Learning Consortium, 2019; 1EdTech Consortium, 2020). None of these alternatives are without difficulty - adoption barriers, sustainability challenges, and governance disputes persist - but they illustrate that reinstitution is not utopian. It is already underway, even if unevenly.

The pedagogical implications are significant. If infrastructures remain tethered to managerial imperatives, they will continue to privilege compliance, accountability, and efficiency. Re-instituted infrastructures, by contrast, can be designed to support dialogue, co-creation, and shared agency. Audrey Watters (2014) argues that educational technology too often forecloses imagination by naturalising narrow visions of the future; reclaiming agency requires systems that leave educational futures open. In practice, this might mean involving educators and students in participatory design processes, co-creating the digital platforms on which they depend. It also means recognising that infrastructural design is pedagogical design: the defaults and affordances of platforms shape what teaching and learning can become.

Reinstitution is therefore both political and pedagogical. Politically, it resists the capture of education by platform logics that subordinate public values to metrics and markets (van Dijck, Poell & de Waal, 2018). Pedagogically, it reclaims education as a shared project of inquiry and imagination. To re-institute digital education is to insist that infrastructures can embody democratic values, not only managerial ones. This is not a call for technical fixes but for collective imagination and responsibility: for educators and students to become active participants in shaping the digital architectures of learning.

This post has argued that institutions, including digital infrastructures, are not neutral backdrops but active forces that reproduce and reshape the ways we live and learn together. Following Castoriadis, institutions are both instituted - stabilised arrangements that sediment collective meanings - and instituting - sites of creativity where renewal remains possible (Castoriadis, 1997). Educational technologies embody this double character. They fix patterns of teaching, assessment, and accountability, but they also shape what is thinkable and doable in education. To regard infrastructures as mere tools is to miss their institutional force: they encode, reproduce, and sometimes foreclose specific imaginaries of what education is and could be.

The learning management system (LMS) illustrates this dynamic. Far from being a neutral platform, it privileges content delivery, assessment, and analytics, while sidelining dialogue, collaboration, and imagination (Lane, 2009). Its hidden curriculum is one of compliance and accountability, shaping both students and staff into subjects who are managed, measured, and rendered auditable (Jackson, 1968; Williamson, Bayne & Shay, 2020). Knox’s (2019) postdigital critique helps situate the LMS within wider questions of how the digital reconfigures education, showing that these systems cannot be understood apart from the broader imaginaries they enact. Lessig’s (2006) claim that “code is law” underlines the point: technical architectures regulate conduct as forcefully as formal rules, embedding political decisions in defaults and protocols. Bowker and Star (1999) add that infrastructures operate through classification, invisibly shaping what counts as legitimate practice. These insights affirm that educational technology is always political: it encodes choices about what education is and what it might become.

Yet recognition of this fact is only the first step. Critical theorists remind us that technologies are sites of contestation, not inevitability (Feenberg, 1999; Selwyn, 2016). If infrastructures carry normative weight, they can also be re-instituted in line with alternative values. As van Dijck, Poell and de Waal (2018) argue, platforms reconfigure public values; the challenge for education is to ensure that those values are democratic and pedagogical rather than merely managerial. Here concrete alternatives matter. Open-source systems like Moodle show that communities can sustain and govern their own infrastructures (Dougiamas & Taylor, 2003). Federated systems such as Mastodon demonstrate the viability of decentralised networks with non-centralised governance (Gehl & Zulli, 2023; Zulli, Liu & Gehl, 2020). Community-driven standards, such as LTI and Caliper, reveal how interoperability can be pursued as a public good rather than a corporate monopoly (IMS Global Learning Consortium, 2019; 1EdTech Consortium, 2020). These examples are imperfect and contested, yet they show that reinstitution is not utopian. It is already underway, even if unevenly.

Reclaiming agency, then, requires more than critique. It calls for educators and students to act as participants in reinstituting digital education, not just as users of inherited systems. Watters (2014) warns that educational technologies too often close down imaginative futures by naturalising particular trajectories. To resist such closure, infrastructures must be designed to keep futures open - to support dialogue, collective inquiry, and shared imagination. This is as much a pedagogical project as it is a technical one. Infrastructural design is pedagogical design, shaping how learning is lived, valued, and imagined.

As the series moves forward, the task is to move from critique toward collective reinvention. If institutions are instituting as well as instituted, then the architectures of digital education can be reclaimed and reimagined. The next post will explore how collective agency might be mobilised to design infrastructures that serve democratic purposes and cultivate imagination, opening possibilities for education as polis in a platform society.

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