Knowledge as an Operating System: How Denmark Funds Higher Education

When I applied for a master's degree in anthropology at the University of Copenhagen, I was told that the program is exclusive and that very few are accepted.

The truth? It sounded strange to me.

In Israel, no one talks about "exclusivity" in the social sciences. You bring a decent-minus psychometric score, and you’re in.

But after I moved to Denmark, I realized something I hadn’t grown up with:

Here, people actually work in the fields they studied.

Anthropologists work as user researchers and research leads in product companies, tech, pharmaceuticals, and hospitals, all the way to Maersk and Lego.

Philosophers working in AI companies as ethics consultants.

Political scientists managing projects in government.

It was almost unfathomable to me.

When I wrote my thesis on programmers in Israel, I had to explain to the Danes that computer scientists are not programmers.

They were quite shocked by that.

In Israel, it’s not even considered a problem.

We all know that university and the real world hardly communicate with each other.

One day, I looked at the syllabus for a bachelor's degree in computer science in Copenhagen.

Instead of calculus, differential equations, and linear algebra (which are only taught in the master's program), there were courses like UX, web development, data structures, programming with a real project.

It almost made me laugh.

Suddenly, it was clear that academic training could be relevant and not just proof that you can survive three years of pure mathematics.

And then comes the part that Israelis don’t believe when I say it:

Students in Denmark receive a salary from the state for studying.

And it’s not because they are "poor."

It’s because the Danish state is not naive.

It invests because it expects to get something back.

Not in spirit. Not in values.

But in real human resources that drive the economy.

The Taximeter Model

Behind this idea lies a funding model called "Taximeter."

Funding for universities is directly related to whether students succeed and quickly integrate into the job market.

If graduates find jobs in what they studied, the institution receives more money.

If not, it gets less.

In simple terms:

The university has to justify itself.

Not just through theoretical research, but through a real contribution to the public.

This creates a clear incentive:

To increase places in fields that are needed for the economy,

To reduce in fields that are less so,

And to build programs that bring graduates closer to the world of work and don’t leave them with knowledge that doesn’t connect to anything.

It’s clear that this comes at a cost.

Academia loses some of its freedom.

You won’t find here the same intellectual radicalism that exists in England or the United States.

Sometimes, the universities here resemble factories for producing applied knowledge.

But alongside the cost, there’s also something I hadn’t encountered before:

Knowledge from the social sciences that serves the public directly.

Research conducted in collaboration with hospitals, government offices, large companies.

Invitations to participate in studies aimed at improving real social systems.

In Denmark, knowledge doesn’t stay in an ivory tower.

It returns to the field.

It changes policy.

It generates iterations and continuous improvement.

And perhaps this is what astonished me the most:

The Danish state doesn’t "succeed" because it has smart laws.

It succeeds because it is constantly learning.

It treats knowledge as an operating system, not as an academic decoration.

This is what higher education looks like when it is part of a forward-thinking state.

When it’s not just "learning for the sake of learning," but part of a larger mechanism of public wisdom and responsibility.

In the picture: Floden Café in central Copenhagen, adjacent to the university. It is designed like an ancient library and is teeming with students who come there to study. The highlight is that from the café, you can access the university's network and get free access to academic material that is usually blocked behind paywalls.

Philosophy vs. Fun

When I studied here at the university, Danish students — a bit naive — would apologize to me for the audacity of other Danes to boast that only they have Hygge.

I didn’t understand what there was to apologize for. Only they have philosophy? I mean: we’ll understand what it’s about, we know what causation is, but philosophy is the measure of success in social situations.

At the end of an event, they will say how "hygge" it was; they will recount the hygge meal they attended and the hygge hotel in Thailand. On travel sites, everyone rates hotels, restaurants, and clubs according to their level of hygge.

But then it hit me. Suddenly I heard myself — unable to adopt the phrase "it was hygge" — and instead, in a burst of willingness to affirm our encounter, I hug my friend goodbye and instinctively say to her, "it was fun."

Is "fun" the equivalent of the Danish "hygge"? I mean, not in essence — they are different — but in role: both are measures of success for a social situation?

And this is significant. Because hygge and fun are so different from each other, and they place completely different expectations on our daily lives.

Hygge revolves around a sense of intimacy, security, and protection. It’s not dramatic and doesn’t pretend to be. Fun, I think, always hides an adventure. At hygge events, there will only be friends and family from the close and intimate circle; it’s hard to be accepted as a guest at a Danish hygge event. Any outsider could disrupt the closeness and hygge, and Danes are often accused of xenophobia precisely because of this. It’s hard to be an outsider in a place where there’s room only for the closest. Fun, it seems to me, is big and inviting: outsiders, distant friends, bring interest and are almost essential for a successful fun experience.

In hygge, everyone tries to maintain a relaxed atmosphere and avoid conflicts. You could be in a circle of ten people where one not particularly charismatic person is speaking and everyone is listening to him. When he finishes, a second passes, and someone responds to him, and everyone’s attention shifts elsewhere.

Israeli fun demands humor and charisma. It requires a vibrancy that holds the space and sophisticated spiciness: humor in loud voices, openness, and banter. Even in a circle of four people, it’s likely that two conversations will be happening within each other; the exchanges are quick, if not overwhelming, until the point is made. The argument is almost necessary to demonstrate thought and rationality.