Must talent wait to be discovered? Or can it make itself seen?
1. The gaze that "finds"
Aoashi keeps showing the moment of "I found it."
Midway through a match, Fukuda looks at one player sitting on the bench. It doesn't look like a choice made by reasoning. It's almost a hunch. And he says, quietly: "Yoshito. You — go." With that one line, a person's trajectory begins to shift.
Something strange has already happened here. How could Fukuda pick Ashito? Not by a score, not by a number. With something not yet put into words — a kind of hunch — he discerns talent. The discovering eye is itself an unexplainable knowing.
This "finding" is beautiful. But it's also a little frightening. What happens to the talent that no one found? What if the discoverer's hunch is off? And what, exactly, is that hunch feeling as "talent" — and cutting away as "ordinary"?
This time I want to read this "discover / be discovered" structure alongside two books: James C. Scott's Seeing Like a State and Pierre Bourdieu's Distinction.
2. Seeing Like a State: the power of legibility
Scott's Seeing Like a State explains how the modern state has governed, with one word: legibility.
The state can't handle complexity as it is. So it arranges things into a form it can "read" from above. It surveys scattered land into maps, cuts tangled customary plots into parcels, registers irregular names into a census, aligns diverse crops into a single cash crop. Arrange it, and you can tax, conscript, govern.
Legibility itself isn't evil. Without it, public health, infrastructure, redistribution don't hold. The problem comes next.
Here is Scott's sharp point: a legible map is not reality itself. When you arrange, something always spills. What spills is the knowledge people built on the ground over long years, hard to put into words — what Scott calls Metis. The quirks of the land, the read of the weather, the one-off judgment. It isn't in the ledger. And yet it was exactly what kept the field running.
Legibility keeps only the readable, and treats the unreadable as "not there."
3. Soccer makes talent legible
Youth development is a vast legibility machine too.
Height, speed, goals, distance covered. The scout's evaluation sheet. Pass or fail at the selection. All of it arranges complex "skill" into comparable numbers and roles. Without arranging, you can't choose among hundreds of players. Legibility works here too, as a necessary evil.
But what Aoashi keeps drawing is the talent that spills from that ruler.
Ashito's abnormal overhead vision, at first, landed on no axis of evaluation. By the existing ruler — "scores goals," "runs fast" — he's just a rough country forward. His real talent — the perception that reads the whole pitch as rhythm — is exactly Scott's Metis. Hard to verbalize, unwritable on a sheet, spilling through the grid of legibility.
So the question becomes this: was the spilled talent really not talent? Or was it the ruler that couldn't read it?
4. The eye is not neutral
Here, one more book. Bourdieu's Distinction.
In #0 of this series, I summarized it like this: aesthetic sense is made by class and history. "What I feel is good" isn't pure preference; it's shaped by upbringing, belonging, the history of one's learning.
This works, directly, on "the eye that sees talent" too. The discoverer's gaze, too, is not neutral. What you feel as "skilled," what you grant as "thinking," what you call "exceptional" — that standard itself is a product of a particular culture and history.
The trouble is here. When the ruler of legibility isn't neutral, what spills is always "knowledge raised in another context." This runs almost continuous with unconscious discrimination. No one judged anyone inferior. They just overlooked what didn't land on their ruler. But to the overlooked, that's the same as being made not to exist.
And the "discover by hunch" eye from earlier isn't free of this danger either. A hunch is an accumulation of what one has seen before. So it can pick up the shapes of talent it has seen — but a shape no one has ever seen can slip even past the hunch. There is no neutral ruler anywhere.
5. If you aren't seen, make them see
So is the spilled side left only to wait for the luck of being "found"?
The fun of Aoashi is that here it draws another path. Not waiting to be discovered, but making them see.
At some point, Ashito starts to define what he is, himself.
This is a quiet rebellion against the structure of legibility. Instead of waiting to be "read" by the ruler, he presents, from his side, how he is to be read. He declares "I am this kind of piece," and leaves no choice but to see him that way.
There's a rougher form, too. This is Fukuda's own playing days. In a foreign club where the language doesn't carry, he says it flat:
His skill was above anyone's. But the words don't carry. Then the only move is to make a "can't-not-read-it" state through play. Waiting for no one's permission, he forces visibility open by results. He stops being an object that gets made legible, and becomes a subject who forces legibility.
Precisely because words don't carry, here visibility is staked almost entirely on play itself. This is Metis striking back. If you're not in the ledger, make them rewrite the ledger.
— And worth remembering: the Fukuda who, at the opening, discovered players by hunch once forced his own read open with his own skill. The one who discovers is usually someone who once made others see.
6. And still, there are those who discover
But "taking over" isn't the only answer.
Not everyone can force visibility open on their own. The one who first picked up the rough Ashito was, after all, a discoverer — the eye of Fukuda, of Akutsu, that can see outside the existing ruler.
A good scout is someone who doesn't fully trust the grid of legibility. Beyond the numbers on the sheet, they try to see the Metis not yet put into words. Behind "can't score," they find "sees the whole." In Scott's terms, an observer who doesn't kill field knowledge with legibility.
And that discovering eye, too, is itself an un-verbalizable hunch — the observer's own Metis. Fukuda probably can't fully put into words why he chose Ashito. That's why the eye is precious. And that's why it's dangerous — because, as we saw, a hunch isn't neutral.
And still, what's remarkable about Fukuda is that he never lets go of both sides at once. He relentlessly demands verbalization from his players — "what was visible to you just now?" — making them put play into words; he uses the power of legibility to the fullest, for cultivation. And yet he doesn't crudely crush the hunches and impulses that can't quite be worded. He treasures verbalization, while properly guarding the territory that can't be verbalized. Not legibility or field knowledge, but holding both. That's probably the hardest — and the most precious — part of the act of observing.
So the discoverer and the one who makes them see don't oppose each other. They're accomplices. An eye that can doubt the ruler on one side, a will that presents how to be read on the other. When the two mesh, the talent that would have spilled finally catches its orbit.
What's frightening is the place where both are missing. Only evaluators who never doubt the ruler, and no margin to raise a voice. There, Metis keeps quietly spilling. With no one meaning any harm.
7. A path is not given
In Aoashi, there's a line: players who carve their own path on sheer ego, regardless of those around them, are rare.
A path is not given. The legible world hands you the parcels that already exist and the roles that already exist. Fit yourself into them and yes, you become "easier to read." But the one who goes toward a place with no ruler yet has to carve the path themselves.
The word "ego" is usually a little disliked. But the ego here is close to "the power to believe in how you see, even when no one can read it yet." The heat to hold up, alone, the stage before being discovered. Without it, the spilled talent vanishes, spilled.
8. Observation, too, is legibility
Finally, to OrbitLens.
Let me be honest. An observation apparatus like EIS is on the legibility side. It arranges the complex reality of git history into seven axes. Makes it readable. Scott's warning comes straight back at me: when you arrange, what spills?
That's exactly why I'm most careful not to over-simplify. So that the signals stay close to the on-the-ground sense, I've tuned the formulas and values, over and over. Legibility is unavoidable. Even so, I want it to be legibility that doesn't kill field knowledge — Metis. Making it readable while not over-tidying it — EIS stands on that thin rope.
The moment you rank people by a score, observation becomes the most dangerous legibility. The ruler of "this score is high / low" calls only the ledger-listed Metis "talent," and treats the unlisted as "not there." Just as Ashito's overhead vision, at first, landed on no axis.
That I'm insistent on Signals, not Scores is, probably, here. Not fixing it by a point, but leaving it as a trajectory. Before judging the unreadable as "not there," leaving the margin to ask: "this trajectory — maybe it just isn't on my ruler yet?"
And I don't want to forget Bourdieu's warning: the observing side's gaze, too, isn't neutral. That's why OrbitLens has a firewall, and a principle of observing the observer. Has the eye, somewhere, become the ruler of a particular culture? Is the telescope itself overlooking something from the start?
Observation can be an apparatus that discovers, and an apparatus that overlooks. The dividing line is, probably, whether you can keep doubting your own ruler.
You can do more than wait to be found — you can make them see. And the observing side keeps asking whether it's overlooking something.
Talent must wait to be discovered — that, I don't want to believe.
Books
Next
In #6, Aoashi again — this time, the side that cultivates. To raise someone may be to hand over a discernment that can't be put into words. Read alongside Richard Dawkins's The Selfish Gene and Max Weber's The Protestant Ethic and the Spirit of Capitalism.
This is a personal reading of Aoashi (Yugo Kobayashi), Seeing Like a State (James C. Scott), and Distinction (Pierre Bourdieu).
The Japanese version lives on OrbitLens Library.
OrbitLens / machuz
