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The New York Times reported last week that Venezuela’s Nicolás Maduro allegedly offered President Donald Trump’s administration an extraordinary bargain: Venezuelan resources for American restraint. The story, still disputed in parts, suggests that Maduro’s envoys floated contracts for U.S. companies—at the expense of Chinese, Russian, and Iranian interests—in exchange for a thaw with Washington. For many, the continuation of pressure despite this apparent concession seems proof of Trumpian chaos: the dealmaker ignoring a golden opportunity. Yet for those who have followed the strategy closely, it is less revelation than proof of concept. The Trump approach, derided as erratic, is actually working.

The energy consultant Mauro Hoyer, who led international affairs at Venezuela’s national oil corporation (PDVSA) before Hugo Chávez and later worked for OPEC, explained that U.S. military activity in the Caribbean “appears to encompass broader strategic objectives than the officially stated mission of countering drug trafficking,” adding that “Venezuela’s energy sector retains strategic importance for the United States due to geographic proximity, geopolitical influence, commercial and investment interests, energy supply security, and the country’s proven advantages in hydrocarbons.”

“These elements suggest that U.S. engagement in the region may be guided not only by security considerations but also by a long-term objective of rebalancing energy and political dynamics in the hemisphere,” argues Hoyer.

Washington’s misreading of Trump 2.0’s play in Venezuela has presented a binary script: Ric Grenell’s transactionalists vs. Marco Rubio’s hawks. One camp allegedly favors a diplomatic off-ramp, the other regime change. Yet this dichotomy has often been overstated. Directionally, both approaches serve a purpose. What the Washington Post now labels the “good cop, bad cop” model—the fusion of calibrated coercion and strategic engagement—suggests an overarching logic behind this new phase of U.S. policy toward Caracas. The fact that Maduro now feels compelled to court Trump’s circle only proves that pressure accompanied by arduous negotiation yields movement.

It is tempting to view Venezuela through a Middle Eastern lens: endless debates over democracy, nation-building, oil, and sanctions that strangle without toppling. In that light, it is understandable that the administration’s references to drug-trafficking in its justifications for Venezuela policy sound the same alarm as “weapons of mass destruction.” Fearing that all the talk about drugs—when Mexico and China are the main culprit of American overdoses—could obfuscate strategy-making is reasonable. Yet, as one source familiar with these matters in the State Department privately disclosed, they know the numbers well. Drug talk is a vehicle, not the sole foundation. One must hope that this view is widely shared throughout the Administration. Otherwise, grave miscalculations could follow. 

Crucially, Venezuela is not Iraq. It sits in the Western Hemisphere, with millions of its refugees scattered throughout the region; it is just three hours from Miami and holds the world’s largest proven oil reserves, as well as significant mineral wealth that will become ever more critical as the global economy pivots toward high technology. There is an intelligence gap here, but Maduro claims to hold the world’s largest nickel reserves and top-five reserves in bauxite and gold; those stakes are worth considering. History reminds us of the strategic weight of its oil in particular—Venezuelan crude was indispensable to the Allied war effort in the Second World War. In 1942, refineries in Aruba and Curaçao, fed by Venezuelan wells, provided roughly 95 percent of the oil required to sustain the East Coast of the United States. The same capacity that once made Venezuela a cornerstone of global energy security can, if revived, serve U.S. interests again. 

By 2030, global energy demand is expected to be about 36 percent higher than 2011 levels. This is especially relevant in an age of rapid technological change, as China’s edge lies not in innovation, but in its command over the world’s critical energy supply chains. The more the United States can extract and stabilize regionally, the less it must depend on—or attempt to reshape—distant, volatile theaters. Long-term strategy demands that we start looking south, not across oceans. When placed alongside the other “usual suspects” of U.S. foreign policy, Venezuela’s relevance becomes even clearer.

While commentators like to lump Latin America and Africa together as comparable resource frontiers, the reality is different: Latin America’s relative stability, infrastructure, and wealth make it a far more attractive venue for Chinese investment. It is worth noting that China understands the value of our own hemisphere far better than we often do. Sixty-five percent of Venezuela’s deal terms with China are unknown, but millions of dollars worth of Chinese mining investments are flowing into the Orinoco Mining Arc, with its mineral resources worth an estimated $2 trillion. Indigenous leaders and pilots in the Venezuelan Amazon have commented on the fact that Chinese men replaced white men several years ago as the most common visitors in the region.

Venezuela’s relevance goes beyond its striking resource wealth. Unlike far-flung crises in places like Taiwan, Ukraine, or Iran, Venezuela is a stage where the United States can best act; pressure and engagement here can most concretely yield tangible results, not mere hypothetical influence and theoretical deterrence. 

The military comparison is illustrative: Iran projects regional power with hundreds of thousands of troops, ballistic missiles, drones, and proxies from Lebanon to Yemen. Venezuela maintains a modest force, lacking reserves, missile deterrents, regional proxies, or expeditionary capability. Its limitations make it a more straightforward arena for engagement. Furthermore, Venezuela also lacks the factional complexity of a country like Syria: its population is overwhelmingly Catholic, its politics not fractured along deep sectarian lines, and the structures driving persistent instability elsewhere do not exist here. Caracas presents a strategic challenge defined by state-level governance and economic leverage, not by diffuse, transnational insurgencies.

Now, the point is not simply that because Venezuela is relatively weaker, all prudence must be abandoned. What it does mean is that exercising pressure is surely more conducive.

Venezuela offers a rare combination of proximity, resource heft, and achievable leverage: a playground where American policy can exert influence, where calibrated pressure and negotiation produce concrete results, and where prioritization yields more than rhetoric. Venezuela is the arena where calibrated pressure—and even limited intervention—makes the most strategic sense. Compared to costly, open-ended military ventures, it is straightforward, proximate, and consequential. Russia is preoccupied in Ukraine; Iran overstretched; and China has shown no appetite to fight for this client. Pressure here is relatively sound, absent fundamentally ideological preconceptions.

Let’s address some of these. 

While the fear that increased pressure would result in a massive wave of immigration is reasonable, it is important to acknowledge that 25 percent of the country has already left Venezuela—one of the largest displacement crises in the world. Most of that wave started more than a decade ago, and the reason it became a problem for the U.S. was because we opened the doors more as times progressed. In fact, Venezuelan migration to the U.S. actually increased as the political situation there got more stable and poverty rates declined—the issue is one of supply, not demand. If anything, Trump-era TPS-related deportations and remigration make a case that pressure could prove a tool for those favoring a saner migration policy. 

It is also argued that the U.S. does not need foreign oil supplies. Strictly speaking, this is true: the U.S. produces enough oil for its domestic market and a surplus for export. And broadly speaking, that should inspire more restraint. The counterargument is primarily economic and geostrategic: When Venezuela previously granted the U.S. preferential access, OPEC panicked—the same OPEC now restricting supply. Preferential access to Venezuelan crude would also undoubtedly be a boon for the wider economy by helping to lower gas prices.

The argument that a stronger Venezuela posture could further reduce U.S. dependence on the Middle East also holds, though it is reasonable to fear that this might not fully materialize. The most persuasive concern one can raise is that a hemispheric focus does not automatically translate into strategic prioritization; it could instead lead to overextension. 

The claim that “pressure doesn’t work” is fashionable but false. Pressure has failed not because it’s ineffective in principle, but because it has been misapplied in practice. Sanctions theory, properly understood, holds that sanctions must deprive, not merely constrain. To alter behavior, they must suffocate—and, crucially, provide a credible off-ramp for relief. The sanctions architecture built under both Trump 1.0 and Biden relied heavily on primary sanctions, with little enforcement of secondary measures. The result was a half-sealed system: Washington restricted its own firms while Spain, Turkey, and China quietly filled the void. Rather than cutting off the regime’s oxygen and waving an oxygen mask, the U.S. redirected its airflow eastward—achieving neither democratization nor sustained leverage. 

One approach to this reality would be to ease primary sanctions while implementing secondary sanctions—offering relief based on privileged U.S. market access, deportation cooperation, and so on. Yet there are flaws here too: Enforcement would be cumbersome, and major powers might respond with countermeasures. That leaves the one instrument sanctions never replaced: credible force. If economic suffocation is no longer viable in the way sanctions-lovers idealize, then the incentive structure can be shifted through power projection. 

It appears that Trump—by instinct more than ideology—is trying to course-correct. Limited, demonstrative shows of force—properly messaged—convey both capability and intent. As evidenced by the Times report and the failure of Biden’s path-to-democracy sanctions relief, they work wonders. Toothless diplomacy led to Maduro taking in the big bucks and ridiculing U.S. demands. Lengthy negotiations coupled with force projection, on the other hand, have cumulatively led to the release of all U.S. prisoners, offered concessions, and the renewal of deportation flights. These are no small feats.

That brings us back to Grenell and Rubio. The foreign policy world loves the image of ideological combat—hawks versus pragmatists, regime changers versus dealmakers—but the truth is less cinematic. Both men, in different registers, grasp the same logic: a deal is better than paralysis, and a power transition is better than a deal. The two approaches are, at least practically, not contradictory but complementary. One pushes, the other pulls. Together, they construct the incentive structure far more capable that Biden’s “good-faith diplomacy.”

This is where prudence enters. It would be a mistake for Washington to read the alleged Maduro offer as a reason to deescalate, just as it would be to put boots on the ground willy-nilly. The logic of coercion is cumulative: Each concession extracted is a reason to press further, not to relent. 

The question isn’t whether the U.S. should engage; it’s how to engage without eroding leverage. A transactional deal—if it leads to U.S. reentry into Venezuela’s energy market and curtails Chinese footholds—would mark a strategic victory in itself. Even if Maduro’s offer is genuine, not just a sign of desperation, coercive diplomacy leverages opportunities rather than taking openings as gifts. Accepting too quickly can also be imprudent. A managed transition, however difficult, is still preferable to the stagnation of indefinite, adversarial autocracy. A democratic (or at least differently led) Venezuela would certainly better serve the advancement of concrete American interests. Even a realist will admit that communists are far harder to extract resources from than libertarians. And Maria Corina Machado is very much a libertarian. 

A limited, calibrated form of pressure can continue to catalyze internal fracture without putting Americans in harm’s way. If, and only if, a transition proves unattainable or needlessly dangerous, which it may, a transactional détente that expands American access remains a worthy fallback. The art of policy here lies in preserving both doors open without closing either too soon. Time, for once, tilts in Washington’s favor. There is no need to rush yet. 

What makes this realist framework distinctive is that it neither romanticizes democracy promotion nor demonizes coercion. It sees both as tools in a hierarchy of needs. In this hierarchy, U.S. national interests—migration control, resource security, regional stability—take precedence over moral theatrics. 

Trump’s Venezuela play is misunderstood because it offends all orthodoxies—both left and right. To those who mistake prudence for passivity, it looks weak; to those who conflate aggression with chaos, it looks reckless. Beneath the noise, there appears to lie a coherence rooted in the oldest traditions of statecraft: align power with proximity, interests with feasibility, and leverage with timing.