The sector’s own quality code was finalised this week. It has rested on twelve agreed principles since 2024; three sets of practical advice were issued last summer, and the remaining nine were published on Wednesday, completing the set. The reception has been warm and unusually uniform. Across LinkedIn and the sector press, the same phrase kept coming back: that this was written by the sector, for the sector, and that it is ours to use as we wish. The warmth is deserved, and the material itself looks careful. It is the phrase I have been turning over because it appears to do rather less work than the confidence with which it is offered.
The collection contains practical advice on various topics such as data use in programme design, partnerships, admissions, complaints, appeals, and teaching assessments, all gathered through consultations and writing groups from across the four nations. Of particular note is the guidance on resourcing a high-quality learning experience. Simply put, maintaining quality as funding decreases. This is arguably one of the most challenging topics to address in the sector this year. It’s also worth noting that in England, the code is usually non-binding, serving mainly as a reference for review elsewhere in the UK. Most of this advice isn’t mandatory, which makes the emphasis on ownership more meaningful than mere decoration.
Two ways to use a reference point
A reference point can be used in two rather different ways. It can be mapped against. An institution sets its arrangements alongside each principle, satisfies itself that they correspond, and records that they do. The record is legible; it can be sent to anyone who asks, and it survives staff turnover. Alternatively, it can be picked up in a meeting and used to prompt a judgement, in which a group of academics asks what good would actually look like in this subject, for these students, at this size, and then decides on something. What comes out of that is a decision. Very little of it reaches paper, and what does tends to be the least interesting part of it.
The attraction to making the initial change seems quite compelling and is unlikely driven by bad intentions. Typically, an institution’s offerings reflect the requests it receives. Governance bodies, professional and statutory organisations, external examiners, review panels, and funders all have legitimate interests in these processes. A comprehensive mapping addresses all these stakeholders simultaneously. However, decisions made only during meetings do not satisfy these interests unless someone documents them, which is often not the case.
Medicine has been here before, and its experience may be instructive. The body that issues national clinical guidance in England prints a standing caution on its work. Professionals are expected to take the guidance fully into account when exercising their judgement, and the guidance does not override their responsibility to decide what suits the patient in front of them. Clinicians have their own shorthand for this: guidelines, not tramlines. The shorthand exists because the pull the other way is real enough, and by most accounts it is strongest at the end of a long shift on a short-staffed ward, when following the line is quicker than thinking about the person.
There is a strong argument on the other side that merits clear presentation. Written practice allows a profession to pass its judgments to those without experience. A new programme leader in a small department, without senior colleagues to consult, can benefit from the collective knowledge of a larger group, which can be a real advantage rather than just a consolation. Such guidance is often most valuable when capacity is limited, a situation many in the sector currently face. The risk and advantage both come from the same factor: the industry’s knowledge has been documented.
What thins first
What really comes under pressure, however, isn’t the document itself. It remains complete and will stay there forever, as documents typically do. The real pressure affects the number of people in a department who can confidently define what good looks like in their own field without consulting external sources, and who have learned to do so by observing others over many years. This point needs clarification because it can be misunderstood. It doesn’t imply that institutions are failing to adhere to rules, nor that anyone is underperforming. Instead, it’s about questioning where the authority to judge resides and how much of that authority remains.
The timing seems intentionally awkward, suggesting no coincidence. An instrument based on collective professional judgment has emerged at a moment when this capacity is under significant pressure. This tension partly explains the advice on resourcing, which exists because someone recognized the issue. This, however, doesn’t diminish the value of the code itself, which appears to be a well-crafted effort by people who know what they are doing. It is an argument that its worth depends on an unrecorded, unreported factor that doesn’t appear in any official reports or boards, making it easy to overlook or misuse.
Three questions might deserve the consideration of a senior team. First, can it identify who in the institution holds the standard for a specific subject, and does it know what happens to that standard when that person departs? Second, when a set of arrangements has been aligned with a principle, does anyone afterwards question whether this alignment influenced a decision or simply whether the task was completed? Third, is a code really owned because the sector authored it, or only in places where enough individuals can define what good looks like without needing to consult others?