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The transition to programme leader is rarely subtle. One day, you are a lecturer focused on your own modules; the next, you are responsible for the satisfaction, progression and outcomes of hundreds of students.

The authority paradox: the mule and the boutique

As a programme leader, you are accountable for the metrics (National Student Survey (NSS) scores, retention, progression), but you do not line-manage the people who deliver those metrics.

In some institutions, this ambiguity turns the role into that of a “mule”, a beast of burden, carrying the administrative weight with little autonomy. Mules are often the victim of their own success. You build a high-quality, intimate course with 30 to 50 students (the boutique experience). It runs perfectly. But universities, driven by financial necessity, naturally seek economies of scale.

Because the course is good, it becomes popular. Suddenly, your intake swells to 200. You move from a seminar room to an arena. The intimacy is lost, and you must deliver the same boutique experience in a supermarket setting. You haven’t just lost the culture; you are likely cross-subsidising other parts of the institution while your own workload becomes much trickier. 

But you cannot scale intimacy. You cannot be a personal mentor to 200 people without burning out. You have to accept that your influence will be different.

I recall a student I taught between 2004 and 2008. Years later, in 2016, I was a guest at their wedding. I am still in contact with them today. That relationship wasn’t built on a policy or a mass email; it was built on a genuine, individual connection. As a programme leader in a large commercial system, you cannot save everyone, and you cannot be everyone’s friend. If you try to derive your self-worth from the satisfaction of the entire arena, you will fail. You must find it in the quality of the connections you can sustain, and the specific problems you can solve.

Chess, not tiddlywinks: managing the ‘barons’

If the lack of direct authority is the structural challenge of the role, the “module baron” is the political one. Every programme has them. The senior academic who has run their module the same way for 20 years, refuses to change, and, crucially, does not report to you.

My biggest regret in 20 years is not picking these battles more carefully. New programme leaders often try to win by frontal assault, armed with logic and student feedback. This is a game of tiddlywinks – flicking counters and hoping they land – when you should be playing chess.

You cannot force a baron to change; you have to outmanoeuvre them. I learned that the most effective tactic is often diversion. If a colleague is blocking a necessary change, give them something else to get excited about. Divert their attention to a new project or a “shiny new toy” elsewhere, creating the space you need to quietly reform the programme undisturbed. Alternatively, identify the gatekeepers, the influencers who hold the baron’s ear. You may not be able to persuade the baron directly, but if you can persuade the person they respect, the idea often lands more softly.

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Sometimes, however, you have to play the nuclear option. Instead of asking “How do I fix this module?”, ask “Does this programme even need this module?”. Cycles of validation and restructuring are slow, often moving in five-year turns, but they are the programme leader’s most powerful tool. By redesigning the architecture of the programme to remove dependency on a specific individual or outdated topic, you solve the personnel problem by making it a structural one. It is the long game, but it is the only one you can consistently win.

The medicine: coach, don’t parent

A programme leader must also extend themselves to the most important relationship of all. The one with the students.

When you combine the “student as consumer” mindset with the relentless surveillance of metrics such as attendance, pass rates and satisfaction scores, it is tempting to become a helicopter parent or a servant, smoothing every bump in the road to ensure the metrics stay green.

I have learned to view my role not as a parent saving students from failure, but as a doctor prescribing necessary, sometimes unpleasant, medicine. The job is to communicate why the medicine is necessary. You have to be brave enough to say, “This doesn’t taste nice now, but in 15 years, you will thank me.”

If you try to parent 200 students, you will become an emotional sponge, absorbing anxieties you cannot solve. If you act as a coach, setting the standard, explaining the training, but making them run the laps, you protect your boundaries while preparing them for the reality of the professional world.

The Royale with cheese: managing the global standard

As universities aggressively pursue transnational education (TNE), you are just as likely to be responsible for the quality assurance of a clone of your course at a partner institution in Singapore, Dubai or China.

This creates a new challenge. How do you maintain the integrity of the “product” when it is being delivered thousands of miles away by staff you may never meet?

I often think of the Royale with cheese scene from Pulp Fiction. McDonald’s is a global constant. A Big Mac is a Big Mac wherever you go, but the “garnish” changes to fit the local culture. Programme leadership in a global context requires the same nuance. You must identify the immutable core of your programme (the learning outcomes, the “beef burger”) and local garnish (the case studies, the examples, the delivery mode).

If you try to enforce a rigid standard where every slide must be identical to the one used in the UK, I truly fear it will fail. Equally, if you allow total drift, the degree loses its meaning. The skill lies in managing that tension and ensuring the qualification is the same, even if the flavour is distinct.

Don’t become the sediment

Finally, a word on longevity. The “squatter” is a familiar archetype in every department. The leader who has held the role for too long, blocked all change, and constantly complains that “we tried that 10 years ago”.

I call this the sediment effect. In a healthy river, the water flows; in a university, talented staff and new ideas move through the system, creating energy. But over time, the heaviest, most immovable elements sink to the bottom and harden. If you are not careful, you become the sediment that clogs the estuary.

You must recognise the difference between stability and stagnation. If you wake up one morning and realise you have stopped listening to students because “they are all the same”, or you stop trying to fix problems because “the system will never change”, you have calcified.

There is no shame in admitting you are done. The danger lies in staying out of habit or fear of the unknown. Programme leadership is a role you should own completely while you have it, but it is also one you must know when to hand over. The best leaders play the long game, but they also know when their part of the game is finished.

Tom Chapman is the principal teaching fellow at the University of Southampton.

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