We are not doomed. (Carl Court/Getty Images)

I once heard an elderly Friedrich von Hayek begin a tirade against socialist planning with a charming personal tale. “The other day,” he said playfully, “I went into a shop. I left with an item that, previously, I had no idea I wanted!” Like all the smartest defenders of capitalism, he thought of the market as a benevolent creator whose job no human-made system could replicate. Hayek’s point here was that we, ourselves, do not know what we want until we enter the market. So how could a government official, or indeed anyone, know what society wants?
Thinkers such as von Hayek dismiss vulgar, mainstream economists who celebrate the market as merely an efficient mechanism for finding the right price of things; they see it as something grander, a liberator of our imagination, the co-creator of our preferences and tastes. They argue that interfering with markets, let alone replacing them, is a terrible idea because centralised systems are inimical to not only efficiency but also to the free development of our proclivities.
But what if our preferences are no longer formed by the market, as they were in Hayek’s day? The year after he died, I was struggling to connect my father’s computer to the fledgling internet when he asked me a killer question: “Now that computers speak to each other, will this network make capitalism impossible to overthrow? Or might it finally reveal its Achilles’ heel?” It was a couple of years after the collapse of Soviet communism but also the beginning of the centre-left’s decline. The threat to capitalism posed by an organised working class had entered a recession that has never ended. Could the internet do to capitalism what the proletariat had failed to do?
It has taken me years to answer my father’s question — in the form of my new book, Technofeudalism: What Killed Capitalism. In it, I argue that our preferences are now shaped not by markets but by machine networks — what I call “cloud capital”. Amazon’s Alexa, for example, is the portal to a totalitarian, fully centralised system of preference creation and satisfaction. First, it trains us to train it to dictate what we want. Second, it sells us what we now “want” directly, bypassing any actual marketplace. Third, it succeeds in making us sustain this enormous behavioural modification machine with our free labour: we post reviews, rate products. Finally, it amasses huge rents from capitalists who rely on this network of cloud capital, usually 40% of sale price. That’s not capitalism. Welcome to Technofeudalism.
Humanity’s fear of its technological creations is ancient: films such as The Terminator and The Matrix are driven by the same anxiety that animated Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and Hesiod’s tale of Pandora, in which she is a robot made by Hephaestus to punish us for Prometheus’s crime. All such stories have a point of singularity: the moment a machine, or a network of machines, achieves consciousness. Generally, the machine then takes one look at us, its creators, and decides we are not fit for purpose, before proceeding to eradicate or enslave us — or merely make us miserable.
But while we lap up such stories, we ignore a very real danger. Machines such as Alexa and AI chatbots such as ChatGPT are nowhere near the feared point of singularity. They can pretend to be sentient but are not. Nevertheless, it matters not one iota that they are mindless appendages of a data-crunching network that only simulates intelligence. Nor that their creators might have been motivated by curiosity and rent-seeking, rather than some fiendish plan to subjugate humanity. What matters is that they exercise unimaginable power over what we do — on behalf of a tiny band of flesh-and-blood humans.
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