The idea that economic growth should be inclusive, rather than simply expansive, is gaining traction across the world. Few have articulated this vision more clearly than the economist Danny Rodrik, whose ‘productivist’ model imagines a capitalism rooted not in abstract efficiency but in employment-rich industries offering dignity and upward mobility. In Mexico—a country marked by persistent inequality, deep informality, and enduring faith in both markets and the state—Rodrik’s ideas invite a deeper reckoning with the national development project.
Mexico has long been lauded for its macroeconomic prudence: inflation targeting, fiscal discipline, and open trade have cemented its standing among emerging economies. Yet these achievements coexist uneasily with structural inequality and stagnant wages. Over half of Mexican workers remain in the informal economy, excluded from basic protections like healthcare and pensions. GDP may grow steadily, but shared prosperity remains elusive. Rodrik’s critique of neoliberal orthodoxy resonates here—not because Mexico has followed every tenet slavishly, but because even modest success has failed to translate into broad-based well-being.
Under President Andrés Manuel López Obrador (AMLO), the state has reasserted itself rhetorically and fiscally. Social programmes have expanded, particularly cash transfers to vulnerable populations. But while redistribution has become more visible, industrial policy remains patchy at best. Grand infrastructure projects such as the Dos Bocas refinery or the Tren Maya serve symbolic rather than systemic roles; they do not constitute a coherent strategy for productivist growth that could anchor middle-skill jobs or modernize domestic supply chains.
Inclusive growth is not merely an economic puzzle but a civic challenge shaped by perceptions of dignity and fairness.
Rodrik’s framework suggests that fostering good jobs requires targeted support to sectors with potential for scale and productivity—not just manufacturing hubs tied to global value chains or gig economies dominated by informality. For Mexico, this implies shifting attention from foreign-led maquiladoras toward nurturing domestic industries capable of absorbing semi-skilled labor at decent wages. Yet this is where theory meets constraint: weak institutions, regulatory capture, and corruption often make directed state intervention look more like clientelism than stewardship.
Critics rightly worry that implementing productivist policies without strong institutions could backfire—leading to rent-seeking rather than renewal. Others argue that attempting to shield certain sectors risks diminishing competitiveness in an increasingly fractious global market. And still others question whether Rodrik’s ideas—formulated largely with advanced economies in mind—can truly be applied wholesale to Mexico’s fragmented labor markets and limited fiscal space.
Still, dismissing productivism outright would mean accepting a status quo in which growth continues to bypass much of society. The broader question it poses—what kind of capitalism does Mexico want?—remains pertinent. Models based on extractive gains or cheap labor offer little dignity; those focused solely on redistribution cannot substitute for productive inclusion. Economic democracy may sound idealistic amid realpolitik—but so did macro-stability three decades ago.
Beyond institutional design lies a cultural dimension: how Mexicans perceive work itself—as survival or contribution; as burden or pride—shapes policy plausibility as much as any white paper does. In this sense, inclusive growth is not merely an economic puzzle but a civic challenge: one that asks whether shared prosperity can be built not only through better jobs but through renewed notions of fairness.
