Hong Kong’s new legislative efficiency: Productivity without pluralism?

At first glance, the latest figures from Hong Kong’s Legislative Council (Legco) suggest an unambiguous success story: more members, more laws, more productivity. Since its expansion to 90 seats, Legco has passed 117 bills—nearly double the output of the previous term. This 98% jump in throughput coincides with a 28.6% boost in legislative headcount, alongside procedural limits on floor speeches and a post-2021 political restructuring that ensures all legislators are “patriots.”

The outcome? Smooth sessions. Little debate. No filibusters. Everything passes on time. To outside observers, it might seem like a bureaucratic dream. But the real story isn’t just about legislative efficiency. It’s about what kind of political system this efficiency supports—and what kind of governance it produces in return.

Before the 2021 electoral overhaul, Legco was often mired in gridlock. Opposition lawmakers would stage walkouts, launch filibusters, and delay key legislation for months. Political theater—sometimes bordering on chaos—was the norm. The overhaul rewrote the rules: only those deemed “patriotic” by Beijing could run for office, effectively excluding most opposition voices.

This reconfiguration shifted Legco from a deliberative body to an execution chamber. Its job is no longer to debate policy in the public square, but to facilitate it with discipline and speed. Procedural changes reinforce this ethos: legislators now have just 15 minutes to speak, drastically limiting rhetorical showmanship. There are no more symbolic speeches like those seen in the U.S. House of Representatives—where Hakeem Jeffries recently spoke for over eight hours to protest a Republican bill. In Hong Kong, verbosity is discouraged. The system now values brevity, not conviction.

As Legco President Andrew Leung Kwan-yuen noted, his job has arguably become harder with more members—even if they’re better behaved. “Everyone’s on their best behavior,” he said, “at least on the floor.” That qualifier matters.

The rationale behind this streamlined model is not inherently sinister. After years of confrontation and gridlock, Hong Kong’s leaders—and Beijing—opted for a form of institutional harmony. The theory is that a chamber without political friction is one that can focus on practical governance: housing policies, infrastructure bills, economic recovery plans.

And in practice, the numbers speak for themselves. Bills are not only passed faster—they’re passed more cleanly, with fewer amendments, fewer delays, and minimal public controversy. But when you remove the friction from a legislative process, you also remove its democratic texture. Debate isn’t just delay—it’s how alternative views enter the record, how public concern is articulated, and how consensus is forged rather than assumed. Without it, policies can feel imposed rather than earned.

This isn’t unique to Hong Kong. Throughout history, efficient legislatures in non-democratic systems—from Singapore’s PAP-dominated parliament to China’s National People’s Congress—have passed thousands of laws with minimal debate. But such systems trade responsiveness for speed. When things go wrong, there are fewer safety valves. And when consensus breaks down—internally or externally—there’s less experience in handling it.

From a governance perspective, the new Legco model has real advantages. For Hong Kong’s Chief Executive and executive branch, it creates a reliable vehicle for pushing through key priorities. From national security to housing supply to digital regulation, there’s no legislative “opposition” to stall the agenda.

For investors and business leaders, the predictability and decisiveness are attractive. No risk of sudden left turns, populist amendments, or contested rollouts. Everything is signaled clearly, passed quickly, and implemented as planned. For a business climate worried about geopolitical instability, that level of control is reassuring.

But for civil society, advocacy groups, and ordinary citizens, the new structure raises questions. Without opposition voices inside the legislature, who speaks for the outliers, the critics, the marginal perspectives? How are interests balanced when the chamber contains no counterweights? And even for government officials, there’s a long-term risk. A legislature that rubber-stamps everything might one day rubber-stamp the wrong thing. In a system that values efficiency over accountability, mistakes are harder to catch early—and even harder to reverse.

To understand what this new legislative rhythm produces, consider the recent passage of Hong Kong’s Safeguarding National Security Ordinance under Article 23. This bill was passed just 11 days after being introduced, following only four days of public consultation. No walkouts. No protest. No amendments.

From a procedural standpoint, it was a masterclass in speed. But from a democratic standpoint, it raised alarms. Rights groups and legal scholars questioned whether the bill’s scope and enforcement provisions had been adequately scrutinized. Critics pointed out that the short consultation period limited meaningful input from civil society.

The government’s response was simple: the law was necessary, and delays were dangerous. That framing—urgency over deliberation—has become a recurring theme in post-2021 governance. While not every bill is as controversial, the precedent is clear: Hong Kong now has a legislature designed to act fast, not to second-guess.

It’s tempting to judge a legislature by outputs: number of bills passed, laws enacted, debates resolved. But legitimacy doesn’t come from quantity alone. It comes from public participation, from the sense that policies reflect not just the will of the powerful, but the consent of the governed. Hong Kong’s new legislative model has optimized for performance. It does what it’s supposed to do: process bills, clear backlogs, implement executive priorities. But legitimacy is a different metric. And the more this system leans on speed and unanimity, the more it risks alienating those who feel unheard.

As history shows, even highly efficient systems eventually need to respond to dissent. And when that dissent isn’t built into the formal channels—like opposition lawmakers or deliberative committees—it tends to erupt elsewhere. On the streets. In the courts. Or online.

The question facing Hong Kong now is not just “How do we pass laws efficiently?” but “What kind of political ecosystem does that efficiency serve?” In Westminster-style democracies, legislative sessions are often unruly, even theatrical. Prime Ministers are heckled. Committees delay votes. Laws are rewritten mid-stream. The messiness is part of the design—it allows competing narratives to coexist, however uneasily.

In contrast, authoritarian systems often celebrate legislative unanimity as a virtue. China’s National People’s Congress famously passes nearly all laws with margins close to 99%. Debate is not expected; discipline is. Singapore, often cited as a hybrid model, maintains public consultation mechanisms but is dominated by a single party.

Hong Kong now occupies an in-between space: procedurally open, but politically closed. It retains the trappings of legislative pluralism—multiple parties, formal procedures—but none of the friction that pluralism entails. That may be sustainable in the short term. But as pressures grow—economic, demographic, political—the system’s ability to adapt may be tested.

Hong Kong’s Legislative Council is now optimized for speed, order, and alignment. That model delivers results—117 bills and counting—but it also narrows the space for dissent, dialogue, and delay. Over time, that could erode the very thing good governance requires: trust. Without opposition voices inside the chamber, scrutiny shifts outside. Civil society, the press, and the courts become the new arenas for contesting policy. That’s a dangerous imbalance. When deliberation is banned from the room, resistance finds its way to the streets.

The long-term legitimacy of Legco won’t be measured by how many laws it passes, but by how many of those laws are seen as fair, needed, and just. Speed is not enough. Especially in a city still searching for its post-2019 political identity, legitimacy must be built, not assumed. Even the fastest lawmaking machine needs brakes—and a steering wheel.