Why Narrowing New Zealand’s Curriculum Misses the Mark

As someone who enjoyed playing guitar in my earlier years I’ve always been fascinated with the work of world class guitarists – including Brian May. Not just because he’s the lead guitarist for Queen, but because he also holds a PhD in Astrophysics. Here’s a man who can make a stadium of 80,000 people sing in unison one night, then spend the next day analysing cosmic dust particles. Which side of him is more valuable? Which represents his “real” intelligence?

This question has taken on urgent relevance with the recent announcement that New Zealand’s NCEA will narrow its focus to ‘academic’ subjects, effectively dropping disciplines like outdoor education. It’s a troubling return to the kind of educational “drafting gates” that have haunted education systems for generations – including our own.

My parents lived through this. At the end of intermediate school, they faced a proficiency test that would determine their futures: pass, and you could attend high school; fail, and your formal education was limited. My father managed to squeak through into secondary education (he attended the ‘technical college’) while his sister, my aunt, failed and so remained in ‘form two’ until she reached school leaving age. This test was abolished in 1936 – too late for my aunt.

Germany still operates a version of this system today, sorting children as young as 10 into different secondary schools – one for vocational training (apprenticeships) another for technical or administrative careers and a third for the “academic” elite.

We thought we’d moved beyond this kind of systematic sorting. Apparently, we were wrong.

The False Binary That Diminishes Us All

The question in my mind is what exactly constitutes “academic” knowledge? The current definition seems rooted in subjects traditionally associated with leadership roles – those measured by exam scores and linked to university pathways. “Vocational” subjects, by contrast, are dismissed as mere workforce preparation, while “hobby” interests such as outdoor education are deemed unworthy of any formal recognition.

But this classification system crumbles the moment we look at real human beings. Under a drafting gate system, which side of the artificial divide would have claimed Brian May? Would some educational bureaucrat have forced him to choose between music and science, potentially robbing the world of either his groundbreaking guitar work or his contributions to our understanding of cosmic dust?

The very question reveals the absurdity of these divisions.

The greatest innovators throughout history have consistently defied narrow categorisation. Leonardo da Vinci seamlessly wove together art, science, anatomy, engineering, and invention. Ada Lovelace combined mathematical brilliance with early concepts for music machines, becoming the world’s first computer programmer. Even in contemporary times, neuroscientist Mayim Bialik has achieved acclaim both in scientific research and television acting (a favourite of mine in the Big Bang Theory!).

These examples aren’t anomalies – they represent the natural human tendency toward diverse interests and capabilities. As education researcher Waqas Ahmed argues, “every person possesses polymath potential, with multiple talents and curiosities waiting to be nurtured rather than suppressed.”

Why Specialisation Fails Our Students – and Society

The push toward early specialisation carries profound costs in my view. Here are some reasons I can think of…

First, it crushes natural curiosity. Children naturally explore connections between seemingly disparate fields. When we force them into narrow tracks, we suppress the very creativity and broad thinking our complex world desperately needs. I was very interested in science at school – but the curiosity I had for it was anchored in the everyday context of my life outside of school – often in the mountains where I spent lots of time tramping and climbing, and where the practical application of thermal insulation became important to understand – so when I was introduced to ‘hollowfil’ fibre as a padding in my coat instead of the traditional down feathers I was naturally curious to find out which was better and why.

Secondly, it often fails to address real-world challenges. Climate change, social inequality, technological disruption – these aren’t problems that can be solved within a single discipline. I recall a project in my own secondary experience where we were looking at environmental issues – looking at the cumulative impact of our waste disposal on the planet’s ecosystem. This drew down to considering the amount of rubbish being left in school grounds at break time. A series of conversations that involved venturing into understanding behavioural psychology resulted in groups of students (myself included) being given the opportunity to express ourselves artistically by painting the rubbish bins around the school so that they stood out as ‘statements’ rather than simply vessels for holding rubbish. It seems to have worked as the amount of rubbish left lying around diminished as the bins were introduced. This kind of interdisciplinary thinking requires exposure to broad educational experiences.

Third, it dehumanises learning. Specialisation treats students as future economic units rather than whole human beings. I think about a student I know who loves both coding and poetry – under this narrowed system, she’d likely be pushed toward computer science because “that’s where the jobs are.” But what if her future contribution to society comes from bridging technology and human expression? What if she becomes the person who helps us navigate AI’s impact on creativity, or develops more humane interfaces between humans and machines? By forcing her to choose at 15, we’re not just limiting her – we’re potentially limiting solutions to challenges we haven’t even identified yet. True education should be about “intellectual and social emancipation” – the freedom to develop one’s full range of capabilities, not just the ones that fit current economic projections.

Finally, it fragments knowledge. When subjects are taught in isolation, students miss the meaningful connections that spark innovation. The musician who understands mathematics, the athlete who grasps physics, the philosopher who appreciates science – these connections create the “aha” moments that drive progress. Consider a student engaged in phys-ed or sport – traditionally seen as non-academic. Yet these areas inherently involve physics principles, physiological understanding, strategic thinking, and often complex statistical analysis. The outdoor education student learns risk assessment, environmental science, leadership, and resilience. The musician develops pattern recognition, mathematical relationships, and emotional intelligence.

These aren’t separate domains – they’re interconnected aspects of human knowledge and experience. When we artificially divide them, we create an impoverished view of learning that serves neither students nor society.

The Economic Argument Doesn’t Hold Water

Much of this narrowing appears driven by a desire to funnel capable students toward high-earning STEM-related careers to boost economic performance. But this logic contains a fatal flaw. If we’re using job market demand to determine curriculum value, what about a subject such as philosophy? It has exams and university programmes, but where’s the robust job market for philosophers? Should we eliminate it too?

The truth is that economic value often emerges in unexpected ways. The arts contribute billions to New Zealand’s economy. Environmental education produces the sustainability experts our climate crisis demands. Outdoor education develops the leadership and resilience skills that benefit every profession – and contributes significantly to the occupations supporting our billion dollar adventure tourism industry!

The original university model provided broad learning before specialisation – and there’s wisdom in returning to this approach. Rather than forcing 15-year-olds to choose narrow paths, we should be expanding their horizons. In my view, a future-focused education system would celebrate connections between disciplines rather than artificial divisions and recognise that today’s complex challenges require polymathic thinking. Such a system would trust that breadth enhances rather than diminishes excellence and understand that human flourishing requires the freedom to develop multiple capacities. This sort of thinking should be shaping our view of curriculum development in my view.

The Stakes Couldn’t Be Higher

We stand at a crossroads that feels painfully familiar. My parents’ generation faced their proficiency tests with life-altering consequences. Today’s students face something more subtle but equally limiting: a curriculum that tells them some forms of human knowledge and expression simply don’t matter.

But here’s the uncomfortable truth: many of the people making these decisions are themselves products of the very specialisation they’re now imposing. When you’ve spent your career thinking within one discipline, every problem looks like something your discipline can solve. The economist sees curriculum reform through the lens of budget cuts and resource allocation. The business leader focuses on creating pathways to high-income jobs that boost GDP. The academic prioritises knowledge development within established fields. The former athlete champions pathways to professional sport.

None of these perspectives is wrong, but none is complete without considering a much broader range of issues and contexts. The narrowing of our curriculum isn’t just limiting our students – it’s perpetuating a cycle where our future leaders will be even less equipped to see beyond their own specialisations.

This isn’t just about educational policy – it’s about who we are as a society and who we want to become. We can continue down this path of treating students as products on an educational assembly line, sorting them into predetermined categories just as my parents were sorted, just as German children still are today. Or we can recognize that our rapidly changing world needs adaptable, creative, broadly educated citizens who can think across disciplines and connect disparate ideas – including the leaders who will make tomorrow’s decisions.

When I think about Brian May crafting both guitar solos and academic papers, I see a vision of human potential that our education system should be nurturing, not constraining. We need more people who can see problems from multiple angles, not fewer opportunities to develop that capacity.

New Zealand has always prided itself on innovation and creativity. Narrowing our educational offerings runs counter to these values. Instead of asking which subjects we can afford to cut, we should be asking how we can better integrate diverse forms of learning to prepare students for a future that will demand nothing less than their full human potential.

The choice is ours: do we want a generation of narrow specialists, or do we want to nurture the polymaths who will tackle tomorrow’s challenges? The future of our students and our society hangs in the balance.