Will Wins Wars. We’re Forgetting That.
Power = Will × Resources.
THERE ARE SOME WHO TALK ABOUT military power as if it can be counted. Troops, aircraft, ships, budgets—these are the metrics that often dominate headlines and shape early judgments about who will win and who will lose in a war. When Russia invaded Ukraine in 2022, those measures drove a near-consensus among analysts: a larger, better-equipped force would quickly overwhelm a smaller neighbor. Russia, after all, had the fourth-largest military in the world—which many people assumed meant it had the fourth-best.
But war is not an accounting exercise. It is a contest of human, political, and material forces interacting over time. And one of the most enduring truths—often overlooked in the early phases of conflict—is that power is best understood not as a static inventory, but as a relationship.
A useful way to think about that relationship is something I learned, long ago, from a senior officer who was a mentor to me: Power = Will × Resources.
This is a dynamic interaction, constantly shifting as wars unfold. “Watch the transitions,” my mentor told me, “because nations and armies rarely operate at maximum capacity in either variable.” I soon learned that will rises and falls with leadership, legitimacy, and public support. Resources expand, degrade, or are misused depending on industrial capacity, alliances, and battlefield effectiveness. The outcome of war is shaped not by either factor alone, but by how they combine—and how they evolve and are shaped over time.
That dynamic has always been on full display in Ukraine. From the start, many analysts believed Russia would achieve a quick and decisive victory. I was not one of them. Having spent time working with Ukrainian forces, I had seen firsthand the quality, professionalism, and—most importantly—the will of their soldiers and their society to defend their sovereignty. I had also seen the Russian military and its society closely enough to understand that both often lacked the quality, leadership, and cohesion necessary to translate their quantity of people and things into effective combat power.
A recent analysis by Brynn Tannehill reinforces how that early misjudgment is being corrected. Ukraine has not only held—it has adapted, innovated, and in key areas gained the advantage, especially in drone warfare and deep-strike capability. Their spine of their military and governmental will has also stiffened over the last few years. Its recent successes—apparently blunting Russia’s spring offensive without losing significant territory (and perhaps recovering some on net) while striking military and economic targets ever deeper inside Russia—are the results of a nation aligning its will with the resources available and continuously adjusting both as the war progresses.
Russia, meanwhile, despite entering the conflict with significant material resources, is suffering a depletion of that force and a deterioration of the will necessary to employ them effectively. Recruiting shortfalls, coercive mobilization, and staggering casualty rates are not just indicators of battlefield losses—they are signs of a system under strain, where the human element is failing to keep pace with material demands.
Ukraine’s advantage is also not just internal. While Russia has antagonized many of its formerly friendly neighbors, occasionally strained relations with India, mortgaged its future to China, and created open hostility with Europe, Ukraine has successfully leveraged the will of its people, and its leadership—under Volodymyr Zelensky—has galvanized external support, not just from Europe and NATO allies but from at least forty countries. That external will has translated into added resources: weapons, funding, training, and political backing. The result is a multiplication effect that has allowed Ukraine to offset Russia’s initial advantages and, in some areas, surpass them.
In modern war, no nation fights alone. Even in wars between individual states, like Russia and Ukraine, when both sides bring to bear all the elements of national power—military, economic, informational, and diplomatic—their allies, trading partners, security partners, and soft power all make a difference in the outcome of the war. Alliances, whether formal or informal, are not optional; they are essential amplifiers of both will and resources. Ukraine understood this from the outset and has nurtured those relationships carefully.
THE UNITED STATES, BY CONTRAST, appears to be ignoring this critical factor of modern war. In Ukraine and in other global crises, the current administration’s approach—publicly questioning alliances, dismissing their value, and at times openly insulting and threatening long-standing partners—has begun to erode one of America’s greatest strategic advantages. Allies are not just contributors of material support; they are sources of legitimacy, shared purpose, and sustained political will. Undermining them diminishes all three. It’s a dangerous course, and we are beginning to see why.
History offers repeated examples of how these dynamics play out. In the American Civil War, Gen. Robert E. Lee sought to offset the Union’s overwhelming industrial and manpower advantages by leveraging the will of his army and the hope of influencing Northern political resolve. His Gettysburg campaign was a calculated attempt to rebalance the equation—attack the Union’s will and strengthen that of the Confederacy by invading the North, availing his army of Northern resources along the way. It ultimately failed, not because will was absent, but because it could not fully overcome the Union’s superior capacity when paired with just enough Northern resolve.
In World War II, the United States demonstrated what happens when will and resources are aligned at scale. Industrial capacity alone did not win the war; it was the mobilization of an entire society—politically, economically, and psychologically—that transformed that capacity into decisive power. The “arsenal of democracy” was as much about national will as it was about production lines.
The same principle applied in Desert Storm. President George H. W. Bush did not simply assemble a formidable military force; he built the will to use it. He secured congressional authorization, communicated clearly with the American people, and constructed a broad international coalition. That alignment of political legitimacy, allied support, and military capability produced overwhelming combat power and a swift, decisive outcome. As I reflect in my book, If I Don’t Return: A Father’s Wartime Journal, the confidence of the force going into that conflict was rooted in the clarity of purpose and support behind us.
Across these examples, the pattern is clear. War is always a contest of wills combined with measurable strengths—industrial, military, economic. Leadership, strategy, geography, timing, and chance also play important roles, but the interaction between will and resources remains central, shaping how all those other variables are brought to bear.
IN THE CONFLICT WITH IRAN, the United States has demonstrated its ability to degrade elements of Iranian military capacity. Certain facilities, capabilities, and networks have been targeted and, in some cases, destroyed or significantly attritted. By traditional measures, this would suggest a weakening adversary.
But Iran is not fighting a conventional contest of resources. It’s deliberately operating in the space where will, time, and asymmetry can offset material disadvantage. Tehran understands that it cannot match the United States platform for platform or formation for formation. Instead, it leverages asymmetric tools—proxy forces, maritime disruption, cyber capabilities, and economic pressure points—to impose costs and create uncertainty. Iran appears to be testing and, in some cases, exploiting fractures in American political consensus and public resolve. By stretching time, raising the risk of escalation, and complicating decision-making, Iran is attempting to influence American will (and our allies’ will to support us) rather than our resources.
The result is a paradox that should not be surprising but often is: a militarily weaker nation can, under the right conditions, counter and complicate the actions of a far stronger one, not by defeating it outright, but by preventing it from effectively translating its superior resources into decisive power. This is not a new phenomenon. It’s what we did to the British in our revolution; it is what Vietnam did to us, as well. It is, in fact, a recurring feature of any conflict.
In the end, the distinction between will and resources becomes even more important when we consider how each is generated and sustained. Resources are tangible. They can be counted, built, stockpiled, and depleted. Industrial capacity, manpower, equipment, and funding are all finite.
Will is different. It’s both more fragile and more resilient. It’s generated internally—through leadership, legitimacy, national identity, and belief in the cause. It’s reinforced externally—through alliances, shared values, and international support. Unlike resources, will can grow from exertion and atrophy from rest. And while it can endure beyond material loss, it can also evaporate long before resources are exhausted.
That is why the most effective strategies in war are those that work constantly to align and sustain both resources and will. Ukraine has done this with remarkable effectiveness. Russia is struggling to do so. Iran is attempting to, betting that its will is strong enough to overcome its resource scarcity. And the United States, despite its immense material advantages, is increasingly at risk as it assumes that resources alone are enough. They are not.
Power comes from the alignment of will and resources—and from understanding that while resources may be measured, will is a result of how we, as a nation, are led.