BIG PROJECTS, BIG FAILURES
POST-SOVIET MEGAPROJECTS ARE NOW MONUMENTS
TO AMBITION RATHER THAN DEVELOPMENT

Over the past three decades, the post-Soviet space has embraced megaprojects with a fervour reminiscent of Soviet-era “gigantomania”. A new terminal, a new city, a new tech hub, a new railway – each presented as a leap into the future. Too many of these projects have turned out not to be engines of growth, but expensive monuments to poor planning, political vanity, and weak oversight. The pattern is familiar: governments promise a showcase of modernisation, costs and timelines escalate, caveats multiply, and eventually it becomes clear that economics, environmental constraints, or demand were never properly assessed.

One of the most illustrative examples is the Astana LRT. What began as a symbol of a modern capital became, by the mid-2020s, a textbook case of how not to build urban transport. According to City Transportation Systems, the total cost reached $1.9 billion. Earlier, more than 80 billion tenge became frozen in the failed Bank of Astana, Chinese contractors withdrew over financing issues, and the project itself became synonymous with corruption scandals. In a city that genuinely needs efficient public transport, the light rail system existed for years primarily as concrete pillars, political promises, and mounting expenses.

Belarus’s Great Stone Industrial Park is a subtler case. Formally, it is neither abandoned nor frozen. On the contrary, official data indicates up to 157 resident companies and declared investments of around $1.5 billion. Yet this is precisely where the gap between presentation and economic reality becomes visible. For years, the project has been promoted as a cornerstone of new industrialisation, but its actual contribution to the Belarusian economy remains far more modest than the rhetoric suggests. Great Stone appears more as a carefully curated showcase of Belarus–China cooperation than as a transformative industrial cluster. As a symbol, it may be effective, as a breakthrough, far less so.

Russia’s Skolkovo Innovation Centre is an even more complex case. It cannot be labelled a failure outright: according to official figures, resident companies generated revenues of 704 billion roubles in 2024, with over 5,000 start-ups and investments reaching 43 billion rubles. Yet the central question remains: if the project is so successful, why, after more than a decade, is it still perceived as a privileged enclave rather than a system that has fundamentally reshaped the country’s innovation landscape? Moreover, in 2025, the U.S. Treasury described the Skolkovo Foundation as a state-directed technological hub that has increasingly shifted its focus toward projects linked to defence and military development. This does not negate its achievements, but it highlights how post-Soviet megaprojects can change narratives while remaining structurally dependent on the state.

The Rogun Dam in Tajikistan represents a different category – not symbolic, but strategic. Yet strategic projects can be equally risky. The World Bank estimated in late 2024 that completing Rogun would cost $6.3 billion – a staggering figure for a low-income country. The rationale is compelling: energy independence, electricity exports, regional integration. But so are the risks: rising debt, environmental concerns, transboundary water tensions, and decades of delays. Rogun is not an absurdity; it is far more serious – a case where a national aspiration may simultaneously be a necessity and a potential “white elephant.”

Kyrgyzstan’s Asman City project currently exists more as a vision than a reality. That is precisely what makes it revealing. In 2023, authorities announced a $20 billion city on the shores of Issyk-Kul, covering 3,143 hectares and designed for 500,000–700,000 residents, reportedly to be built without state funds. By 2024, however, reports already indicated $480 million in financing being allocated. This reflects a familiar regional pattern: grand visions are presented as investment-driven futures, only for the state to begin underwriting them. For a country facing chronic infrastructure gaps, such contrasts resemble not strategy, but political speculation.

Against this backdrop, New Tashkent should be viewed not as a success, but as a test case. The first phase alone covers 6,000 hectares and is planned for 600,000 residents, with long-term projections reaching up to 2 million. Meanwhile, Tashkent itself already exceeds 3.1 million inhabitants, and its broader development programme includes projects worth $16 billion. The scale is striking – and precisely for that reason, concerning. In a region where megaprojects often substitute for deeper governance reform, the key risk is that the new city addresses political ambition rather than real urban needs. The question is not how impressive the renderings appear, but who will finance, manage, and maintain this urban vision over the coming decades.

All these cases share a common thread. Post-Soviet megaprojects are too often driven not by demand, but by the desire to impress. They are built as arguments – for leadership, for voters, for investors, for history. Yet infrastructure, unlike political rhetoric, requires less spectacle and more discipline: transparency, accountability, professional management, and rigorous cost assessment. These are precisely the elements most frequently missing. The core issue is not that the region builds too big – it is that it still too rarely calculates honestly why it builds at all.

by Taina Kaunis