Turnout in 2001 went under 60 per cent for the first time since the first world war (when many voters were still scattered across Europe), the result – in an election memorable for pretty much nothing else – of a fairly shocking twelve percentage point drop from its 1997 level. Furthermore, the 1997 election was itself the first time turnout had dipped below 72 per cent since 1935.

This marked fall in turnout was, arguably, the highlight of the 2001 electoral process. Elsewhere, Labour lost all of 12 seats from its historic majority of 1997, the Conservatives, still deeply hindered by their calamitous mistakes of a decade before, confirmed their position as a flat-lining party led by a man with no hair and the Liberal Democrats, well, they made up the numbers once again. When it appeared that all else had stayed the same, the freakishly low turnout at least gave political commentators something to talk about.

One of the central topics of these ponderings was whether or not this drop in electoral participation was just a blip, a one-off event that demonstrated a mix of contentment and an end to the vociferous ideological debate that had fuelled previous ballot box battles.

A consensual answer (of sorts) was that the decline in the numbers making their way to the polls was more than just a blip; rather, it was the sign of a new era of politics – less tribal, more cynical, and with a more pronounced demarcation between the Power and the people. This particular line of thinking was augmented by the 2005 general election, in which, despite an increased use of turnout-enhancing measures, most notably the widespread adoption of postal voting, turnout rose only very slightly, to just over 61 per cent. Subsequent research, such as the recent Power Inquiry, strongly suggested that this fall had nothing to do with contentment, people weren't staying away because they simply didn't want to get rid of the government, but because they didn't feel at all enthused by the apparently remote process.

Alienation, apathy and antagonism, analysts asserted, were here to stay.

Such an assessment ignited a debate that has become increasingly important over the last decade, as Scottish and Welsh devolutions, along with elections to the European Parliament, have provided more opportunities for people to stay at home on polling day. Due to the relative unimportance (in relation to Westminster elections), turnouts outside of general elections are particularly poor.

The impact of low turnouts is important for a number of reasons, primarily because it calls into question the legitimacy of those who find themselves elected. The current Labour government rests on the approval of a little over a fifth of the total electorate. In the 2005 general election, no MP gained the votes of more than half of their constituents. In fact, only three gained more than 40 per cent. There were another three who cleverly managed to become MPs on less than 20 per cent of the vote in their patch. The lowest of these, Bethnal Green & Bow's George Galloway, who polled 18.4 per cent, pulled the same trick in his successful 2001 election, where he got the support of just 19.5 per cent of the Glasgow Kelvin electorate. Under such situations, one suggesting that MPs now are no more representatives of their people than those in the days of rotten boroughs, would perhaps not be doing so entirely comically.

There is only so much that turnout can teach us, however. After all, Westminster elections only tend to come around every four or five years, so they can tell us little about what is happening in between, especially about how responsive the political system is to the people it was theoretically set up to serve.

Quite how such a thing is measured, is, however, a rather tough task in itself. It also neglects another aspect of the debate, namely, whether a vote cast for a spurious reason, as undoubtedly many are, is any more a measure of democratic legitimacy than a knowing abstention. If we agree with the legendary political commentator H. L. Mencken, that "democracy is the theory that the common people know what they want, and deserve to get it good and hard", one would presumably argue that a vote cast by an idiot, for an idiot, for idiotic reasons, is, ultimately, democracy in action. And if the people don't know what they're electing, than they shouldn't complain when they don't get what they want. To many an independent observer, it would appear that the age of a democracy has something of a negative relationship with the cognitive capacities of those entrusted to run it.

This is sadly an even more insoluble problem than a mere low turnout, and not one that it is worth going into here. That we brought everyone the vote before we brought them the wisdom to use it astutely is indisputable. Somewhat confusingly, however, this was probably the right thing to do, even if an electorate more limited in size, but less limited in awareness, is a more effective check on the excesses of government.

Before attempting to conjure up solutions to the problems of low turnout, it makes sense to understand the reasons behind it, in as much as one can do that on a general level.

Wherefore art thou, voters?
Knowing why people don't vote is obviously attached to knowing why they do. Unfortunately, this isn't overly easy to deduce, as theory dictates that voting isn't a rational act, as the 'payoff' of influencing the result is so miniscule compared to the 'costs', such as the time sacrificed, of going to vote. As is often said, an individual voter has more chance of being hit by lightning on the way to the polling station than they do of directly influencing the result.

However, rational choice theory when applied to elections relies on the assumption that the only 'payoff' is in being the person who made one's candidate win. Which is a bit silly. People aren't entirely rational; rather they have bounded rationality. In terms of voting, not only is there the emotional satisfaction, or payoff, of taking part in the democratic process, or however else it's sold these days, but there is also the hope factor. In voting, people are concerned both with the immediate chance of satisfaction of influencing the election, but also the satisfaction linked with how the winning party behaves after an election, which can't be rationally accounted for on polling day. Furthermore, as Edlin et al have pointed out, voters' "social preferences" dominate their "selfish preferences", meaning the size of the electorate is far less important than the importance of the election in analysing turnout.

In short, people vote because they think that something good will come of it. Most of them are wrong of course, but that's beside the point. People are more inclined to think that voting is worthwhile for a number of reasons:

Will the election have an (imagined or real) impact on their lives? This is why more people vote at general elections than European Parliament elections.

Will the election be competitive? This is why more people vote in marginals, and why more people vote around the world under fairer voting systems.

Will the elected government be responsive to the people's expression? Compare the relative gulf between the electorate and the executive of low-turnout USA and Switzerland with the closer link in 95 per cent turnout Malta.

The answers a voter gives to these questions are determined by two main factors: resources and mobilisation. Resources includes things like education (including levels of political awareness), wealth, and free time, whereas mobilisation covers efforts on behalf of parties, candidates or interest groups to persuade people that the election will be competitive, responsive and have a genuine impact on their lives.

Are you talking to me?
The relevance of all this to the UK elections should be evident, as voting is pretty much the same wherever you go, assuming you don't stumble into a dictatorship, where even if 'elections' are held, turnouts can rather miraculously exceed 100 per cent.

Therefore, if the good people of the United Kingdom think that they can have a relatively decent impact on an election and if they think that the subsequent government formed will be responsive to their desires then they'll sacrifice their time and go and vote. This sense of import can be achieved one of two ways: firstly, by actually existing, and secondly, by clever people making it appear to exist. A good example of the latter would be the energetic electioneering wheeled out for every general election.

The political parties responsible for mobilising others are also responsible for mobilising themselves. By creating a 'community feel', a grand circle of people thinking (or rather groupthinking) 'I'll do it if you do it', political parties offer another way to counter the crudities of rational choice theory as explained earlier.

But with party membership declining, and a distrust of all things political becoming increasingly unfashionable, it will take more than a reliance on activists to get turnout back. This is so obvious that even the people in charge have realised it, which is why in recent years the country has taken pioneering steps to up electoral turnout in a number of ways.

The most prominent of these efforts is postal voting, although other ideas such as e-voting and incentive voting are also being looked into. However, concentrating efforts on making voting easier as opposed to making it more worthwhile rather misses the point. It tackles, to some extent, the symptom, but it does nothing about the cause. And as the 2005 general election showed, it doesn't work that well either: there is only so easy you can make voting, and we're pretty much there. In contrast, making voting more relevant and making politics more responsive has a long way to go.