Why Are the Russian Armed Forces So Bad?

By Matthew Parish, Associate Editor

Friday 10 July 2026

The Russian Armed Forces present one of the great paradoxes of modern military history. They belong to a state possessing the world’s largest nuclear arsenal, vast natural resources, a long military tradition and an immense defence budget by international standards. They inherit the mythology of victory in the Second World War, celebrate generations of celebrated generals and possess a sophisticated arms industry capable of producing advanced missiles, submarines and aircraft.

Yet on the modern battlefield they have repeatedly displayed shortcomings that seem wholly inconsistent with their reputation. The full-scale invasion of Ukraine, launched in February 2022, exposed weaknesses that many Western military planners had not anticipated.

Instead of overwhelming Ukraine within weeks, Russia became embroiled in a grinding war of attrition marked by staggering losses of personnel and equipment, persistent logistical failures and a remarkable inability to achieve many of its strategic objectives despite overwhelming numerical advantages.

The obvious question follows: why?

The answer is not that Russian soldiers lack courage. Individual acts of bravery have been recorded throughout the conflict. Nor is it because Russian engineers are incapable of designing sophisticated weapons. Russia continues to produce world-class missile technology and has demonstrated considerable ingenuity in fields ranging from electronic warfare to air defence.

The deeper explanation lies in institutions rather than individuals.

Military organisations reflect the societies from which they emerge. An army does not exist separately from its political system. It reproduces the habits, assumptions and incentives of the government that commands it.

Modern Russia is an intensely centralised state. Authority flows downwards, while information flows upwards only after being filtered by officials anxious to please their superiors. Failure is concealed. Success is exaggerated. Promotion depends less upon independent judgement than upon loyalty and political reliability.

These habits become disastrous in warfare.

Successful military organisations encourage initiative. Junior officers must be willing to make independent decisions when circumstances change unexpectedly. Modern combat evolves too rapidly for every instruction to come from headquarters. Communications fail.

Commanders are killed. Opportunities appear without warning.

Western armed forces have increasingly embraced what military theorists call mission command: senior commanders define objectives while allowing subordinates considerable discretion in how those objectives are achieved.

Russia has struggled to cultivate such a culture.

Centuries of political centralisation have encouraged obedience over creativity. Officers who improvise successfully may receive praise, but officers whose innovations fail often face severe consequences. Under such conditions, caution becomes rational. Waiting for orders is safer than taking responsibility.

This creates paralysis.

Another fundamental weakness lies in corruption.

Corruption does not merely waste money. It destroys military capability at every level.

Maintenance budgets disappear into private pockets. Vehicle parts are stolen and sold. Fuel allocations are falsified. Training exercises are exaggerated on paper. Procurement contracts reward political connections rather than engineering excellence.

For years enormous sums were reportedly allocated to military modernisation. Yet when war arrived, many vehicles lacked proper maintenance, soldiers lacked adequate equipment and supply chains proved astonishingly fragile.

The corruption was not invisible.

It had simply become normal.

Officials evaluating one another had little incentive to expose systematic dishonesty because doing so would implicate themselves. Consequently, optimistic reports travelled steadily upwards until political leaders themselves came to believe an illusion.

This phenomenon extends beyond procurement.

Training is extraordinarily expensive. It consumes ammunition, fuel, spare parts and flying hours. Armies that genuinely train intensively inevitably incur substantial costs.

If budgets disappear through corruption, training suffers first.

A tank parked in a warehouse looks impressive during an inspection. A pilot who has flown only a fraction of the necessary hours may nevertheless appear fully qualified on official documents.

Combat quickly exposes the difference.

The Russian officer corps has also suffered from structural weaknesses inherited from Soviet traditions.

The Soviet military expected to mobilise enormous armies during a continental war.

Individual soldiers were often treated as interchangeable components within an immense machine.

Modern warfare increasingly rewards precisely the opposite qualities.

Small units equipped with drones, satellite communications and precision weapons require intelligent leadership at every level. Individual initiative becomes a strategic asset rather than a luxury.

Ukraine has often demonstrated this principle with remarkable effectiveness. Relatively junior commanders have frequently adapted to changing battlefield conditions more rapidly than their Russian counterparts, aided by decentralised decision-making and closer integration with modern intelligence systems supplied by Western partners.

Technology alone cannot compensate for institutional rigidity.

The Russian military also inherited another debilitating tradition: dedovshchina, the system of hazing and abuse inflicted upon junior conscripts by senior soldiers. Although reforms have reduced its visibility compared with earlier decades, its cultural legacy remains significant.

An army built upon internal intimidation struggles to generate trust.

Professional military effectiveness depends upon cohesion. Soldiers must believe that officers value their welfare and that comrades will support one another under extreme danger.

Where abuse becomes institutionalised, confidence erodes long before combat begins.

Strategic culture has likewise played a role.

Russian military history contains extraordinary victories, but many were achieved through overwhelming mobilisation rather than operational brilliance. During the Second World War, the Soviet Union ultimately prevailed through immense industrial capacity, vast manpower reserves and extraordinary national sacrifice alongside the indispensable material support provided through Allied Lend-Lease.

The resulting historical memory sometimes encourages the belief that perseverance alone can compensate for tactical shortcomings.

Attrition becomes strategy.

Casualties become statistics.

Time itself becomes a weapon.

Such assumptions become dangerous when facing an opponent capable of continuously adapting technologically.

The war in Ukraine has become, above all else, a contest of innovation.

Commercial drones have evolved into precision strike systems. Artificial intelligence increasingly assists target identification. Electronic warfare changes almost monthly. Software updates sometimes matter more than hardware production.

Military bureaucracies accustomed to slow procurement cycles struggle within such an environment.

Political interference further compounds operational weakness.

Autocratic governments frequently encourage commanders to deliver politically desirable news rather than accurate assessments. Leaders insulated from criticism gradually lose contact with battlefield realities.

History offers many examples.

Military disasters often begin not with tactical incompetence but with political leaders receiving distorted information from subordinates afraid to tell uncomfortable truths.

Once such distortions become institutionalised, strategic errors multiply.

The decision to invade Ukraine appears to have rested upon a series of profoundly mistaken assumptions regarding Ukrainian political cohesion, military capability and public morale. Those assumptions were not merely intelligence failures. They reflected a political culture in which dissenting analysis was insufficiently valued.

The consequences proved catastrophic.

Yet it would be unwise to dismiss Russia as permanently incompetent.

Large military organisations learn.

The Russian Armed Forces have demonstrated considerable adaptation during the course of the war. Their production of drones has expanded dramatically. Electronic warfare capabilities remain formidable. Defensive fortifications constructed across occupied territories have often been highly sophisticated. Missile production has continued despite sanctions, while operational coordination has improved in several sectors.

Learning, however, has often occurred reactively rather than proactively.

Reforms have tended to follow disaster instead of anticipating it.

That remains an institutional disadvantage against more flexible adversaries.

Ultimately the weaknesses of the Russian Armed Forces are inseparable from the weaknesses of the Russian state itself. Armies mirror political systems. A government characterised by excessive centralisation, corruption, fear of criticism and personalised authority will almost inevitably produce military institutions exhibiting precisely the same characteristics.

Weapons can be purchased.

Soldiers can be conscripted.

Factories can produce tanks and missiles.

Institutional culture is vastly harder to transform.

Military excellence requires honesty, accountability, initiative, professionalism and trust. These qualities flourish most readily within societies willing to tolerate criticism, reward competence above loyalty and encourage independent judgement.

Where fear replaces honesty, appearances replace reality.

The battlefield eventually discovers the difference.