Picture this: A person is so outraged by a company's actions that instead of writing a complaint, they write a cheque - to a charity that stands in direct opposition. Their donation isn't just about doing good. It's about making a point.
This is the world of retributive philanthropy, a form of giving where justice and punishment, not generosity, is the driving force. And thanks to new research by Ivey PhD candidate Ethan Milne, we're beginning to understand just how powerful - and personal - this kind of giving can be.
The tweet that sparked a thesis
What began as a casual scroll through Twitter turned into the foundation for Milne's research. It was just after the 2016 U.S. election, and a curious story was gaining traction: more than 80,000 people had donated to Planned Parenthood, in Mike Pence's name, using his Indiana home address. Soon, the then-Vice President-elect was flooded with thank you letters from the reproductive health organization he strongly opposed.
"If you know anything about Mike Pence or Planned Parenthood," Milne said, "they probably wouldn't get along."
What struck Milne, HBA'20, wasn't just the volume of donations, but the intention behind them. People weren't giving out of support alone; they were giving as a form of protest. A way to send a message. A form of punishment, cleverly wrapped in philanthropy.
Milne knew he had stumbled onto something promising. When he shared his observations with his thesis advisers - marketing professors Miranda Goode and Kirk Kristofferson - they agreed. Together, they began digging deeper, and a new kind of charitable behaviour was formally named: retributive philanthropy.
Milne, Goode and Kristofferson published a research paper on retributive philanthropy and its potential to reshape nonprofit strategy.
When wrongdoing drives donations
To unpack this emerging trend, Milne and his advisors took a multi-method approach, drawing from interviews, real-world donation data and a series of lab experiments. Across every method, one insight held true: Retributive giving only takes hold when people believe someone has done something wrong - intentionally, and unapologetically so.
"Consumers don't want to punish people who've made honest mistakes," Milne explained. "But if someone knowingly crosses a line? There's nothing like a common enemy to fuel retributive philanthropy."
For charities looking to tap into this energy, the formula is clear: there must be a shared sense of moral violation and a clearly identifiable wrongdoer. Without that, the emotional engine behind retributive giving stalls.
But is everyone equally likely to give this way? Not quite. While Milne notes that motivations like altruism, self-interest and even revenge can coexist in the same donation, some individuals are more predisposed to act when wrongdoing is involved.
Authoritarians - both left- and right-leaning - were more likely to donate punitively, especially when they perceived the wrongdoing as intentional. It's a surprising twist, given that authoritarians are typically less likely to donate in general.
"This shows us a new pathway to connect with potential donors who might otherwise sit on the sidelines," said Milne.
Nonprofits, take note
While the promise of retributive philanthropy is compelling, Milne offers a word of caution: it's not a tool every organization should wield.
"Retributive philanthropy, while effective, must be used with strategy and care," he says. "If misapplied, it risks alienating your current donors and sending the wrong message."
For nonprofits considering this bold approach, Milne outlines three essential conditions:
- Clear wrongdoing: The injustice must be unmistakable - and directly relevant to your mission.
- A visible wrongdoer: There must be someone your supporters can hold accountable.
- The right donor base: This strategy works best with donors who lean toward structure, rules and moral clarity.
Even though this path isn't right for every cause, Milne's research offers a fresh insight: Your potential donor base may be broader, and more nuanced, than you think.
