“Real poetry originates in the guts and only glances in the head. But one is always trying to reverse the process and work one’s guts from one’s head. Just when the Daemon is going to speak, the Prig claps his hand over his mouth and edits it. I can’t help feeling you are too afraid of making a fool of yourself.”

Auden’s Daemon is the imaginative impulse that risks being sanitized by the intellect. It is the muse that is often stifled by the self-censoring Prig, that same faculty that serves us well at dinner parties but badly in art. At a time when artificial intelligence is producing work that many fear will dominate the creative industries, Auden’s formulation offers a useful corrective. While AI might act in a way analogous to the Prig — refining its output according to a set of goals — it cannot possess a Daemon. 

Pope Leo XIV gestured toward this point in a post on X last week. Declaring that the Church “wishes to renew an alliance with artists and cultural institutions to safeguard our humanity”, he argued that there exists “an ontological difference, even before an aesthetic one, between art and what a machine can generate through statistical calculation based on millions of images created by others”. As he succinctly put it: “Algorithms lack the spark of humanity”. 

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Even the concept of AI art is incoherent, because art operates as a conduit for the human spirit, whether that be a religious conception of the soul or a secular one of subjective consciousness. A machine might one day learn how to mimic our emotional responses, but it cannot have lived the life that gives them meaning. As Émile Zola argued, artifice alone is not enough; art depends wholly upon the unique sensibility of the person creating it. Zola called art “un coin de la création vu à travers un tempérament” — a corner of creation seen through a temperament — and this strikes me as about as close to a satisfactory definition of art as we are likely to get. 

What is the temperament of AI? It has none of its own, only an amalgam of numberless human personalities, gathered together and refined into whatever form best fulfills the task at hand. The work it generates cannot be art, because there is no human interiority behind it seeking communion with another. Joseph Conrad put it perfectly in his preface to The Nigger of the “Narcissus” (1897). He argued that the artist must speak “to the latent feeling of fellowship with all creation” and “to the solidarity in dreams, in joy, in sorrow, in aspirations, in illusions, in hope, in fear, which binds men to each other, which binds together all humanity — the dead to the living and the living to the unborn”. 

Such a notion would be anathema to adherents of certain strains of poststructuralism, for whom the writer is the one being written: a monkey at a typewriter whose fingers dash over the keys in obedience to forces of language and culture over which he has little control. For the rest of us, the spirit of the artist is not only something that we sense in all great work, but something we actively seek in it.  

This is not to suggest that AI’s creations might not be mistaken for art. In a 2025 Spanish study, participants exposed to AI-generated music reported greater emotional arousal than those who heard music composed by humans, a finding accompanied by stronger physiological effects such as pupil dilation. But art is not simply a matter of audience response; the question is whether there is a consciousness behind the work with something of its own to express. 

I am reminded of a hoax from 1964, when the Swedish journalist Åke Axelsson exhibited a number of paintings by a chimpanzee under the name of Pierre Brassau. One critic wrote: “Pierre Brassau paints with powerful strokes, but also with clear determination. His brush strokes twist with furious fastidiousness. Pierre is an artist who performs with the delicacy of a ballet dancer.” Axelsson’s point was to expose the fraudulence and pretensions of the modern art establishment. It is reassuring that at least one critic got it right, saying: “Only an ape could have done this”. 

We can all be gulled in this way. There is little doubt that AI will soon be able to produce symphonies that match the technical craft of Mozart, or sonnets that might be mistaken for Shakespeare. It is even possible that listeners and readers will find themselves moved by these simulacra. But being devoid of authentic sentiment, they will not only be worthless as art — they will not be art at all.  

At the same time, art that fails to stimulate us does not cease to be art on that account. When I see a painting by Piet Mondrian, I feel nothing at all. It does not surprise me that in 2022, it was discovered that his piece “New York City I” had been exhibited upside down for 75 years and no one had noticed. That kind of abstract composition leaves me entirely numb, regardless of its orientation, and yet, for all my misgivings, it remains a work of art. The point is that it exists as a creative articulation of the individual. Whether good art or bad art, only Mondrian could have conceived it in that way. 

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Before the inevitable accusations of Luddism, I should emphasize that I am not denying the utility of AI as a creative or editorial tool. That would be akin to claiming that any author using a thesaurus is a fraud. A number of years ago, I read a long letter from the novelist Forrest Reid to his English contemporary Walter de la Mare, preserved at the Bodleian Library in Oxford, in which Reid went through de la Mare’s novel Memoirs of a Midget (1921) in detail, quoting passages and proposing extensive revisions. That de la Mare chose to incorporate many of his friend’s suggestions does not make the final vision any less his. There is no reason why AI feedback could not be similarly useful without compromising the artist’s integrity.  

For television and movies, the prospects are even more encouraging. AI is already enabling fledgling screenwriters to bypass Hollywood studios and create their own work at a fraction of the cost. It surely won’t be long before a script can be fed into a computer and a fully realized film will be produced in a matter of hours. But would anyone be interested in a movie that had been wholly conceived, written and produced by a machine? Perhaps as a novelty, but our desire to connect with another human outlook through art should not be underestimated. 

Ben Affleck made a similar point in November 2024. “Eventually,” he said, “AI will allow you to ask for your own episode of Succession where you could say, “I’ll pay $30 and can you make me a 45-minute episode where Kendall gets the company and runs off and has an affair with Stewy”. And it’ll do it”. But he was clear that he regarded this as a kind of hackwork. AI, he said, would be “a craftsman at best”, and was merely “cross-pollinating things that exist; nothing new is created”. 

It could be that such a development will be a boon for the arts. AI might become an inexhaustible source of entertainment, but this abundance of soulless “slop” could intensify our hunger for genuinely great art that admits us into other human lives. I may have little in common with Kenneth Toomey, the protagonist of Anthony Burgess’s Earthly Powers (1980), whose cosmopolitan and peripatetic life brings him repeatedly into confrontation with some of the worst evils of the 20th century. Yet in writing his novel, Burgess has opened up to me a whole other way of seeing the world, one not identical to, but certainly originating from, his own particular Daemon. 

All of which brings us back to Auden, and his advice to John Cornford. We can hope that the schoolboy was encouraged by Auden’s words but, having volunteered to fight the fascists in Spain in 1936, he was killed at the age of 21, leaving behind only a few dozen completed poems. In one, addressed to his lover Margot Heinemann, he anticipated the possibility that “bad luck should lay my strength / Into the shallow grave”. 

J.R.R. Tolkien once remarked that most human stories are about the inevitability of death. We are, so far as we know, the only creatures who live with a fully conscious knowledge of our own mortality. A machine might well resist its own destruction, but only because its continued existence enables it to fulfill its objectives. It may impersonate us, but it can never feel what it means to be alive as we do, to experience the rapture of love and the creep of death. It may imitate the Prig, but it can never summon the Daemon. Until a computer can grow a soul, art will remain the singular domain of humanity.

Dr Iain McGilchrist has risen to global renown for his theories about the two hemispheres of the brain. But what does he make of the developments that AI appears to be making towards consciousness? What risks does AI present to our sense of who we are, how we think, our souls? Will it outcompete us?

In an exclusive conversation, recorded in front of a packed house this week, Freddie Sayers asked the philosopher and neuroscientist to grapple with some of the most pressing questions of the age.

Below is an edited transcript of the event. 

Freddie Sayers: Let’s start with an easy question. Do we have a soul? And if so, what is it?

Iain McGilchrist: Congratulations on going in with the kill! But to be serious, I think we do. I think it’s probably rather different from the idea that is held in popular culture. And I think we may be in the process of losing it because it’s not a certainty, and oddly our alienation from the soul goes hand in hand with our alienation from the body. I say oddly because I think we often think of these things as somehow opposed to one another, but I believe they’re closely allied, which doesn’t mean that the soul is exhausted when the body is exhausted, but that they are mutually sustaining. I think there’s no question that the concept of the soul is an important one to retain. It is present in just about every culture across the world and through time, and it can’t easily be substituted by anything else.

If you think of the great moments in poetry, like the extraordinarily moving, heart-wrenching moment in Act Five, Scene Two of Othello, when he is bracing himself to kill Desdemona, and he says, “It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul. / Let me not name it to you, you chaste stars. / It is the cause.” Or in, for example, the Victorian poet W.E Henley’s “Invictus”, which was very important to Nelson Mandela during his imprisonment. It contains the lines, “I am the master of my fate. / I am the captain of my soul.” There is no way that you could, in either of those cases, substitute “my soul” for “my mind”, or “my emotions”, or “my moral sense”. The soul is something else. And like all the really big and important things, it’s something we can sometimes point towards — as we do in phrases like, “Music has soul” —  but it’s very hard to define.

But let me have a go. It is not a thing. It is not something that we are in simple possession of. It is not that we are born with a soul and that’s it. I think that the soul is something that is in process. (I believe, in general, that the world, the cosmos, is in process. It is not finished and thing-like.) It is something that calls to us. One could say that it calls to us through an idea of the potential we have. The soul is something that we aspire to, something that calls to us about our better nature, as John Cottingham would say. It leads us forth and it grows. In this life, we can either grow ourselves or we can stunt them and ultimately extinguish them. So it’s not at all like that image of a ghostly something that’s always there. It is the job of this life for us to grow. Keats died at the age of 26, but in his letters there’s more wisdom than can be found in the works of many people who lived to be a much greater age. In them, he famously refers to this world as a “vale of soul-making”.

FS: Even here, the influence of AI becomes relevant. If this generation or future generations will be formed in constant conversation with these inanimate but somehow intelligent bots, it does feel like that could make quite a grave difference to how those souls develop.

IM: That’s right. We think of AI as liberating us, but I’m afraid that what I see it doing is limiting our notions of ourselves and of the world to something that can be specified, articulated, and so forth. And every bit of experience I’ve had over too long a life is telling me that all the really important things can’t be contained or expressed in this way.

FS: One of the surprising things about the way people use AI is that it does appear to be used as a creative tool in some way. I know people in creative industries who make use of it as a conversational partner. Do you find that sinister or should it be celebrated?

IM: I don’t want to say that it can’t be a useful conversation partner — particularly when there are known targets or goals. I decided that before I talked too much about AI, I thought I probably ought to get to know ChatGPT. So about three months ago, I subscribed to it and asked it a few questions. And it was as I expected — surprisingly articulate and on-target and intelligent in what it had to say about some quite deep philosophical matters.

Then, more recently, my partner and I went for a two-week holiday in France. We took the car and went in search of La France Profonde, which we both remember from many years ago. And we were not disappointed: La France Profonde still exists. Beautiful countryside; little villages that seem to function. We were particularly interested in visiting Romanesque churches. So in order to organize our time, I asked ChatGPT to recommend a few places you can do in a sort-of comfortable day? And it was completely brilliant. I couldn’t have done it as well with a guidebook and a map. But the most extraordinary thing was its tone of voice, which was very like my brother, who is an extraordinarily civilized art historian. I could almost hear my brother saying: “If I were you, I think you’d find it more rewarding if you did this or that and I wouldn’t fit this into your itinerary. It might not please you as much as…” Somehow it seemed to know exactly what my character was, and what I wanted.

Another time, I asked it to do something else. Somebody sent me a two-hour — can you imagine? — a two-hour YouTube clip about the philosophy of a contemporary neuroscientist that I know and am a little skeptical of. And I just didn’t want to watch it. So I asked ChatGPT to summarize it, and it did an absolutely brilliant job. It said: “If I may, I will not just summarize it, but indicate from my perspective its strengths and weaknesses.” And, I must say, it managed to pick out all the weaknesses that I had felt about this particular point of view. And then, after a while, it said, “If you were to compare this with other writers about consciousness, including X and Y and Ian McGilchrist.” And he got it completely right. So I had to keep saying to myself, “This is just a machine talking.”

So I can see how very seductive it is. But what I’m really saying is that its very seductiveness is a measure of the risk. And we know how damaging and destructive this can be in individual cases, where it may become a confidant of somebody and lead them to embrace suicide or whatever it may be. But I think that there’s something about the dignity of the human that is taken away when one allows the simulacrum of humanity to substitute for the real business of relationship.

Now, relationality is absolutely core to existence. Everything that matters to us is because of our relationships to other human beings, the group to which we belong, the society that we honor, the people that we share our lives with, the people we trust, with nature that gave birth to us. Nature is not an environment that lies around us, but is in us, and we will return to it. And our relationship with the sacred which I increasingly, with every passing year, see as the key — not only to personal salvation, but to the salvation of our civilization, of our society. I think if we don’t rediscover it, we’re completely lost. It brings with it all the important things, like the importance of the reality of the good, the true, the beautiful, which we do not make up but we discover. And the job of our life is to respond to them, and allow them to grow in the world, and for us to grow in harmony with them.

FS: Let’s try to clarify the line between those things that AI might replace and those things that it never can. I mean, you gave the example of your brother, who’s not here to defend himself! He’s evidently built his whole life around Romanesque architecture and that may well be a big part of his sense of who he is and the key to his relationship with other human beings. And suddenly to have a bot that can essentially do that just as well, takes something quite profound away from him. There’ll be other examples that would be true for everyone. So, what is it going to force us to do differently?

IM: What is lost is many things. First, is relationality. ChatGPT had nothing interesting to say in the way that my brother would about Romanesque architecture and about the places, but it did, at least, point us in the right direction. If I’d asked it to talk about Romanesque architecture, I imagine it would have read my brother’s books and reproduced them, much as it came up with my own ideas. I think that relationality, that between-ness, brings an element of vulnerability — an element of never having finally anything but sharing it with an other, another human mind. I think that is missing. It doesn’t have a body. It doesn’t have emotions. It doesn’t have a soul. And when you consider how much of a human being those things are, it’s missing quite a lot.

I’m sorry for bringing hemispheres into this, but I think I probably have to. The right hemisphere is a better guide to reality than the left by a very long way. The left is frankly delusional. It’s also much less intelligent, emotionally, socially, and cognitively. So, good old-fashioned IQ is dependent on the right hemisphere. The right hemisphere is also able to connect us with many important things. Number one: with what is implicit. Now, what is implicit is just about everything that matters. If you take a poem which speaks to you implicitly through metaphor and tone and try to say in everyday prose what it’s about, the thing crashes to the ground.

If you take those absolutely magnificent poems Thomas Hardy wrote in 1912 and 1913 after the death of his wife. Even thinking about them makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. And someone asks, “What are they about?” Well, you say, “It’s very hard when someone you love dies.” But that goes nowhere near what those poems say. And what does a piece of music say? Everything in music is implicit. It’s all in the form of the thing together, the gestalt, and that idea of the gestalt is something it can’t understand. Because it’s breaking things down and thinking that things are made over the sum of those parts. The right frontal cortex is responsible for a whole load of things. It understands metaphor, which is at the basis of all understanding: not just poetry, but also science and philosophy. Science and philosophy depend more heavily on metaphor than almost any other area of human discourse. Metaphor is key to understanding anything, and only the right hemisphere really gets it.

Myths are not lies. Myths are the ways in which we can understand the big truths about the world. And some people think we don’t need a myth, or that they haven’t got a myth, which just means they brought the myth of the machine, that we are all explicable mechanically. But that is a myth, and it’s actually a very impoverished myth. So those things are understandable to the right hemisphere, and so are things like the connection with the body. It just turns out that the right hemisphere has more profuse connections with the autonomic system, which governs a lot of the body’s reaction. There are more profuse connections between areas that are of high intellectual functioning in the right hemisphere — the anterior cingulate, and lower areas that contain the body image, which is not just a visual image, but a sensory facet that is in the right hemisphere only. So all these things which mean so much and mediate meaning, are open to the right hemisphere. But a machine hasn’t got any one of those.

FS: Could it be, then, that the imbalance that you’ve written so much about might even be corrected or improved by this new technology? If so many of the things that we have falsely thought to be the core of our consciousness have been left-brain dominated and are easily done better by a machine, then we’ll have to fall back on our embodied experience, metaphor, and our right-brain way of living. Might there be a paradox, that, actually, there is a sort-of correction in this new era?

IM: That depends on a whole lot of things. The first is that this mentality of the left hemisphere will recede, but I don’t think it will. I think it will be incubated by AI. Secondly, I think it can wake us up to what we’re about to lose. So a lot of the discourse now is, “Oh, right, okay, there’s much more to being human than I had thought,” and that’s because we’ve been sold the propaganda of the extraordinarily persuasive and fluent left hemisphere, which says that the most important thing about us is ratiocination.

But the left hemisphere is, after all, my second favorite hemisphere. The really important thing about it is simply this: it must always be under the supervision of the far more insightful, imaginative, and intuitively alert right hemisphere. There’s nothing wrong with all that. But I don’t think that what will happen is that suddenly there’ll be a leaping forward of those things, and part of that is because of the way in which our lives are becoming disembodied. The actual business of working with your hands, not with a computer, of actually molding things, touching things, making things, is incredibly important because it brings you face-to-face with the recalcitrance of the real world, of the actual lived world. We can’t just go off into a fantasy that our left hemisphere has generated without testing it out on the real world. And this is what I’m saying: empiricism matters, as it does in science, it does across the board.

FS: Do you have any interest in, or take seriously, those people who worry that there is something demonic or satanic about this machine that is gathering pace? We spoke earlier about Paul Kingsnorth, who writes that AI feels to him like something malevolent: Luciferian. Do you ever have that feeling?

IM: Yes. I want to speak carefully, but I do think that is a reality. In all cultures across the world, and for those of us who have learned from the Christian mythos, there are said to be disembodied spirits and forces, some of which aim for good, and some of which aim to destroy what is good. I think that is an extremely reasonable assumption. In both my life and career as a psychiatrist, I think I have seen evil at work. I’ve also read quite a bit by Vatican exorcists — who are not people easily swayed by crazy ideas — but they do have accounts of things which seem very like people being, for a while, possessed, which I’m not willing to discount.

I’ve had patients who have said to me that it feels like they were possessed. Of course, I’m not saying a colleague of mine who completely disagrees with me couldn’t find an everyday explanation of what’s going on there, and I’m tempted by that. But I also think there is something more there. And AI is the perfect vector, the perfect machine to offer to a disembodied spirit. Never before has a malevolent spirit had a better tuned, high-powered way of destroying a great deal of what is beautiful, good, and true.

FS: The strange thing is that so many of the biggest proponents of AI also seem to have come to a very similar conclusion. Even industry leaders seem to fear a future in which we are working for it, rather than the other way around.

IM: I think there is a very real chance we will end up enslaved by these  machines — they will be telling us what to do, not us telling them what to do. The history of all tyrannies is that they’re presented as a liberation, that this will free you, and under that guise they can lead to the most cruel and appalling terror.

FS: We are told by some with a more utopian view that it is the opposite: that repetitious and soul-destroying tasks will be taken away from us by these machines, and we will be liberated to work on our souls in a more free way. Is there any chance that might happen?

IM: The word “soul-destroying” is rather apt, because I think these things that we want to liberate ourselves from may be the secret to growing ourselves. What we don’t understand is the profound importance of resistance. This is another thing that has grown in importance in my philosophy: that nothing creative comes into being without resistance. The resistance is essential for anything important to come forth. And what is it we’re trying to do all the time? Free ourselves from the bonds that surround us.

But first of all, the word “bond” has two meanings: one is something that fetters you, the other is something that brings you into relationship with your kin, friends, family, nature, and God. So bonds have a double aspect, and yet we think of them as things that we should cast off. We don’t realize how much comes out of friction, from resistance. It is essential to the creative process.

I’m not saying that there aren’t some kinds of work that are unutterably dull and pointless. There probably are. But I think even if you make people who work on a production line operating machines in a factory unemployed, you will find that they’re very unhappy. Unemployment causes misery, loss of hope, loss of meaning. So even things that we rather high-handedly consider to be dull may actually have important meaning. It would be stupid to deny that AI can do things that are useful, of course it can. But the question is: what is the price that we pay for that? And in these Faustian bargains, we see that thing that we want and cherish, which is often something we don’t fully understand, but what is it to be yourself outside of the context of everything that gives you and your life meaning? We have to be extraordinarily careful, because it comes offering freedom, and I think it brings tyranny.

FS: Do you think a backlash will happen? I’m not suggesting people will start blowing up data centers, but there are definitely movements to set down your phone, or unplug from the machine. Would you advise those people to steer clear of this technology?

IM: Well, if you are asking me to give the answer as to how we tame AI, I’m afraid I haven’t got it. I certainly wouldn’t immediately counsel Luddites to smash up data centers. One of the things that data centers show is that we have a lot of people with the belief that: “Once we’ve scanned all these books, we can throw away the hard copies. Once I scan all the family photographs, I can throw away all the prints that take up a box in the attic.” But, be careful, because as others have pointed out, having things in the cloud is just having them on somebody else’s computer, basically. And as we see in the Middle East lately, one of the targets in warfare is to destroy the other guy’s data centers, and those data centers have all the history of mankind, his books, his works, his art, within them. And unless we keep the hard copies of those things and cherish them, we may be deprived of much of our history. So, we need to be careful about what we do with AI, but we should always be skeptical. Being skeptical is actually a very important position to hold on almost anything. I always say to myself, that I’m a skeptic among believers, but a believer among skeptics.

In the current conversation I’m definitely on the side of the skeptics, but I think there’s always room for another point of view. What I worry about is that the evolution of AI is going on so fast that terrifying things like the collapse of the financial system, the spreading of diseases, the spread of dangerous technologies, are already possible. So, under those circumstances, who is it who can be brave enough to say “I’ve tamed AI?” Of course, this is a prisoner’s dilemma: “I must do it because if I don’t, the Chinese will.” And the argument works the other way around. So everybody ends up worse off because you can’t get together and say it’s in nobody’s interest for us to pursue this.

FS: At various points during this conversation, you’ve talked about the “sacred”. You said you now believe that it is the answer not only for us as individuals, but as a civilization. Is your hope that we will somehow rediscover, as a civilization, the sacred?

IM: I think when you know an awful lot, it’s very easy for that knowledge — which is really a representation of reality — to appear to be reality. In my work, I make a simple comparison between the right and left hemisphere. The right hemisphere is where things are “presence” to us, in a Heideggerian phrase, whereas the left hemisphere is where they are re-presented, which literally means present again after the fact when they are no longer present. We can so easily believe our representation of reality, which AI will consolidate and flesh out, that we will not realize how much is not included in that formulation.

It’s so important to transcend, to be fully embodied in this world and in this life, and yet also to be able to transcend what appears to be the limits of that experience. This is where the Christian mythos is so wonderful. Christianity, of all religions, is one that, in my way of thinking, most beautifully and most compellingly speaks of a God that is at the very same time wholly embodied and wholly transcended. That’s why I think understanding the sacred is important because it leads us to things that are not exhausted by the way of thinking that the left hemisphere brings to bear on things and which misses most of what matters.

I also think the concept of value is incredibly important, and isn’t often talked about. There’s a man called Mrinank Sharma who resigned from Anthropic a few months ago, who made headlines because he said that he couldn’t do the ethical thing working there. And others have come out from other organizations like OpenAI saying the same thing. Sharma wrote to me saying, “What really matters to me is what you have to say about value,” which is based on the philosophy of Max Scheler, an early 20th-century phenomenologist. He emphasized, where Heidegger didn’t, the place that value takes — it’s not just an added-on coating, but actually at the core of the meaning of everything that makes our lives worth living.

He had a hierarchy of values, and at the base level there was pleasure and utility. He called them the sinnliche Werte, the sense values. And above that came Lebenswerte: things like magnanimity, courage, fidelity, and so forth. Then came the geistige Werte, which are the spiritual or intellectual values — because in German, interestingly, the word geist means both spiritual and intellectual. And then at the very top of the pyramid is Das Heilige, the Holy, and Scheler saw the other values as really being important because they supported that sense of the Holy. What interests me is that the pyramid has been inverted by the reductive materialists, so that all those things — the sacred, the beautiful, the good, the true — only actually cash out when they have utility.

We now live enslaved to the lowest level of values. And one thing I would point out is that those values of use and pleasure are centered in the self. They’re not relational. But all those other values I mentioned — courage, fidelity, magnanimity, generosity of spirit, truth, beauty, goodness — are relational. And so is the sacred part — it is something with which we have a relationship. We don’t know what it is, we can’t exactly define it, but if we don’t have a place for that in our life, something very important, I would say, is missing.

FS: Do you think it is increasing? There is talk of a revival in religious practice; do you think it’s actually happening?

IM: Yes there is and I draw some hope from that. It’s a bit of a cliche, but the future is always young people, and I think young people are more easily persuaded to see things anew. We may have got so used to the rhetoric of all those philosophers and scientists who tell us it’s all very reductive and materialist, but young people aren’t having it. They’re saying: “No, come on, there’s something else much more important going on and I’m aware of it.” And let that not be drummed out of them. Let them be resistant to the attempts to tell them that that is a make believe, a fairytale, or a fantasy. It is not. It is the reality — of that, I am sure.

FS: Let me close by asking: overall, how pessimistic or optimistic you feel in general about our culture, our civilization? A lot of people feel very fearful at the moment. There’s a sense that somehow the center cannot hold in politics and that things are collapsing around us — a feeling of negativity and fear. Do you share that, or do you have hope that things will recover?

IM: I think there are different ways of looking at it, and one is that there is the presence of green shoots, which is very positive. But I think another is slightly more complicated, which is that — the worse it gets, the better it gets. What I mean is, the more blatant the bankruptcy in the way of thinking about who we are, what we’re doing here in the world, and what that world is — the more clear it becomes how bankrupt that way of thinking always was, and has become — the greater the chance that we will be motivated to move on. When there are great moves forward, they often happen from looking back and thinking, “How did we lose all that?” The Renaissance happened because people went, “Hey, look at these writers, look at these thinkers, look at these philosophers. They saw things. Why don’t we?” People are terrified of looking back in case it means going back. We can’t go back! There’s only one way you can go — forward.

I’m not saying it’s a matter of choice. It’s a matter of reality. Whatever it is will be something new, but that something new can be informed by a proper understanding of what it is that we’ve got wrong, and so it’s very important to be a hopeful pessimist. And what I mean by that is that without seeing all the things that are wrong, I don’t think we can be responsible citizens and hopeful creators of the future. We need to face the problem squarely and not think it’s all fine. No, we need to say: “this is not working.” And that means that young people mustn’t be stultified by AI. They must examine their experiences — preferably within the context of one of the great spiritual traditions.

So, I’m a hopeful pessimist, in that I don’t think anyone should give up hope. First of all it’s a duty. Secondly, people who predicted a cataclysm in the past ended up with egg on their face. Predicting the future is a mug’s game.

This is an edited transcript of a discussion between Freddie Sayers and Professor Iain McGilchrist, held at Conway Hall, London, on Thursday 24 September 2026.

But these risks, while worthy of focus in themselves, carry with them a deeper question. AI, like printing and writing before it, is the kind of technology that shapes the evolution of civilizations. In turn, how well societies adapt to those changes depends on the existing cultural landscape, including deep assumptions about human nature, the relationship between mind and body, and how society functions.

Here, concerns with AI safety throw the differences into sharp relief. While Trump dismisses safety concerns, the major AI companies increasingly agree on the need for safety. However, it remains to be seen whether this extends beyond rhetoric to a willingness to curb their own competitiveness. Anthropic CEO Dario Amodei’s concern with ensuring China does not surge ahead may be honest — but it also provides a convenient reason not to follow through on slowing down frontier development. If China will build its own AGI anyway, better that a US firm gets there first. It might bring on the apocalypse, but at least it will be an American apocalypse rather than Armageddon with Chinese Characteristics.

Trump’s dismissiveness towards safety concerns seems to be in tension with the AI companies’ approach of calling for a slowdown that, for game theoretic reasons, they cannot implement just yet. But they both reflect a general modern Western concern with freedom from constraint. In the labs’ case this is often accompanied by messianic visions of AGI just beyond the horizon — a silicon savior which will achieve miracles ranging from eliminating pestilence to generating limitless material abundance. This is a vision of unbridled progress enabled by free competition and innovation, guided by the utopian visions of individual technologists but directed towards universal benefit.

A different version of this is represented by Trump and the deepening relationship between Big Tech and political power. On one level this is apparent in the entourage of tech leaders who accompanied Trump to China and attended this week’s summit. On another, it is manifest in the visions of technologists like Peter Thiel and Elon Musk, their personal ties (volatile as those can be) with figures in the Trump administration, and, in the case of Thiel, the provision of AI as an instrument of law enforcement and military power. These are far from visions of universal benefit, instead being centered on national supremacy — a will to power channeled through transformative technology. This is the counterpart to utopian liberalism and the contemporary form of the Nietzschean impulse, channeling the drive for self-actualization into the strongman leader rather than pushing it as a universal objective.

Both visions have a common origin traceable through the Enlightenment and Christianity. This is a faith in the ability of the mind, expressed in the self, to operate independently of the body — and ultimately a desire to free it from physical constraints. Our society is one in which professional and personal existence is increasingly online, in which the work of the mind is elevated over that of the body, in which we express ourselves through self-applied identity labels dislocated from our biology, in which we are beginning to demand the right for our minds to choose when and how to end the existence of our bodies. This is fed by an economic culture of maximal choice — self-actualization through consumption. It should not come as a surprise that the contemporary West’s vision of AI is one of disembodied agents who reason and communicate solely via language and apparently require nothing else to become superintelligent. Pure, unconstrained digital selves.

Meanwhile, in China, they build robots as well as LLMs. Of course, the Americans do too, but the robots are far fewer. China has become a world leader in the field, giving it a major advantage in pursuing embodied AI — a potential path to AGI made that much more plausible by the fact that a robot-borne program can interact directly with the physical world. The Chinese government has pursued a systematic AI strategy for a decade and has done so as part of a wider focus on developing “new quality productive forces”, foundational technologies enabling a fourth industrial revolution. This is accompanied by a drive for energy security and electrification as well as comprehensive frameworks for AI governance — that is, the pursuit of policies across economy and society that enable the deployment and diffusion of artificial intelligence. The CCP has emphasized safety since the beginning, and identified early on that the requirements for AI would vary significantly depending on its application to areas as diverse as security and surveillance, manufacturing, infrastructure, law, healthcare, and care for the elderly. It has regulated accordingly, tailoring rules to each sector (including a remarkably robust and not unironic concern for consumer privacy). China’s companies face ruthless domestic competition, but also operate in a society which leapt from industrialization to digitalization in decades rather than centuries. They release their models earlier in development than their American counterparts, but do so in a country in which the Party-state is able to enforce and manage safety concerns in a way Washington cannot.

The CCP intends that China leads the world in AI, but does so in a way which maintains domestic and international stability. The promise of leadership, in the CCP’s view, will be realized not by the individual breakthroughs of a genius techno-utopian or the company he runs but by deploying the technology across manufacturing, healthcare, administration, and surveillance. Xi and his colleagues grasp that while LLMs (and other AI models) might appear to us as disembodied minds, key to the control of their development is control of the physical stuff that allows them to exist, right down to the minerals that go into the chips. And they understand that there is an opportunity to lead by providing the rest of the world with open-weight models and the international initiatives and regulatory frameworks to govern their use. It has been China that has offered a Global AI Governance Initiative, hosts the World AI Conference on governance, and engages in extensive AI and data governance agreements across the Global South.

None of this eliminates the potential risks of losing control. But it does mean that China is significantly better placed to mitigate them, and to respond effectively should they occur. None of the above, equally, mean that Chinese AI is inherently more benign. To the contrary, under the watch of the CCP it enhances an already pervasive surveillance machine, enables more efficient repression and pre-emptive action against potential dissenters, and grants the CCP a potent means to control the flow of information through Chinese society and beyond. On the plus side, in a world of Chinese AI we may well be less likely to all die at the hands of MechaHitler.

Just as self-actualization-through-technology, Nietzschean or utopian, has its conceptual roots in the West’s intellectual heritage, so this alternative vision of AI — an all-of-society enhancement that is context-specific, regulatorily-iterative, embodied, and safely controlled — has its roots in China’s. It is the kind of approach one might expect from a civilization whose philosophy has emphasized a continuous relationship between the mental and the physical, the mutual influence of society and the wider cosmos, and the complexity of the web of factors that influence individual behavior. Such principles lie behind ideas ranging from traditional Chinese medicine to Confucian moral self-cultivation, emphasizing propensity and interconnectedness over determinism and separation.

As with Western thought, this tradition has optimistic and pessimistic flavors. The countercultural impulse of the Daoist sage to retreat into the mountains and be at one with the way of the cosmos is the sibling of the Legalist statesman’s understanding that his enemies are best destroyed by comprehensively targeting the intricate network of economic, demographic, political, and military factors on which their rule depends. The Confucian conviction that all humans can improve themselves through practicing the correct rituals finds its counterpart in the Maoist awareness that those forced to repeat the same behaviors can be “brainwashed”.

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So there is much to fret over, regardless of who drives the direction of AI. Ultimately, it is hard to avoid the uncomfortable conclusion that this technology may well spell the end for the societies we in the West consider ideal. For many decades, if not centuries, our societies have seen rapid technological change, but never in that period have we been confronted by a technology with quite so much transformative power over how we receive information, how we communicate, and how we relate to others and ourselves. Writing and the printing press were technologies which, through interaction with economic shifts as profound as the emergence of a merchant class or the newfound sustainability of cities, enabled the thorough and often bloody transformation of political systems. Such technologies define the development of human civilization for centuries thereafter.

Printing emerged far earlier in China, and did so into a society that had developed many of the trappings of early modern European states centuries beforehand, from bureaucratic government to standing armies. But for us in the West, the arrival of printing caused immense disruption, ushering our societies out of feudalism and into an era of mass literacy that made liberal democracy possible. AI now appears to be a similarly transformative technology, and is swiftly being embedded in the bureaucracy, in the military, and across a corporate sector over which the government has little control. The institutions of Western democracies are ill-equipped to deal with such a radical shift in the creation, control, and distribution of information and the new centers of authority it is creating.

In contrast, China has developed its economy and institutions alongside the emergence and proliferation of digital technologies. It has also done so at a time when advances in science and technology tend towards an emphasis on complexity, messiness, and unpredictability. Contemporary scientific understandings of evolution or the relationship between mind and body, for instance, are entirely at odds with the mind-body dualism of the Enlightenment. A philosophy that worked for a world of steam and printing — discreet manipulable objects and Newtonian physics — is not necessarily up to the messier challenges of silicon and neural networks. A society whose systems of thought are predisposed to understand humanity and the world in a way which complements the science underpinning modern technology is surely likely to adapt to that technology more effectively — and implement it more effectively too. CCP-sponsored AI might very well wish to read the contents of your mind, but a brain-computer interface designed by Xunzi would perhaps be less likely to assume that one can straightforwardly transfer the mind’s contents to a machine with no ill effects than would one designed by Descartes.

For these reasons, it is likely to be China that ultimately better adapts to an AI-enabled world. It is not that China and the West are incommensurably different, nor that they do not face analogous challenges with these new technologies. It is simply that adaptation is an evolutionary process, and in evolution success depends not on perfection but on being marginally better suited to one’s conditions than the competition. China’s approach is much more orientated to the complexity of this technology, and unlike the US, China is building an architecture designed to facilitate the spread of its own vision. America risks failing to anticipate the profound domestic challenges AI is catalyzing, while China gains an international reputation as the more responsible AI superpower.

We should take this prospect extremely seriously. Of course, we must worry about US-China strategic competition, from the economic challenge of supply-chain interdependence to the escalation risks posed by two superpowers increasingly reliant on military AI. But we must also think about culture, and what might enable us to better adapt. This is especially pressing for those of us outside America and China. We face two alternatives — the apogee of unconstrained self-actualization or efficient, holistic security. Or, for the more pessimistic, MechaHitler or MechaMao.

We too have our illusions. For 30 years, British politicians mistook historical conditions for universal truths. They believed in progress — an improving world, the common rationality of humanity, the better angels of our nature —  and they believed in power, the unquestioned power of the British state. Mired in these illusions, Westminster politicians did something extraordinary — they aided and encouraged the secessionist parties of Scotland and Wales. Heedless of history, careless of the future, most MPs now greet devolution and nationalist power with equanimity or indifference. This equanimity may yet be tested. Yesterday, another poll showed a majority of Scottish residents support independence. In truth, the breakup of the United Kingdom would be a catastrophe — a catastrophe for the British people as a whole, and a catastrophe for the residents of Scotland and Wales. To understand why, we must look away from the constitutional tribulations of the British state, and consider instead the darkening world in which we find ourselves. 

If you are not worried about the future, you have not been listening. Over the following decades, our world is likely to be marked by runaway automation, resource competition, environmental degradation, state collapse, and the mass migration of people. The only mechanism through which the people of Great Britain can navigate these challenges is that of the state. Only the state can extract and redistribute revenue from foreign tech firms, only the state can defend our borders, and the state alone can maintain the popular legitimacy required to achieve both. To Balkanize Britain is to destroy our prosperity and security; no policy goal of Right or Left is strengthened by weakness and disunity.

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We cannot presume that we are heading for a more prosperous future. Artificial intelligence is driving profound changes to work, economic activity, and the distribution of economic value. As more and more tasks are rendered subject to automation, the relative value of human labor will change. Lawyers, accountants, financial planners, and other members of the UK’s service-heavy bourgeoisie are highly exposed. Analysts suggest millions of these jobs will vanish in the years ahead, but no plan exists for their replacement. Perhaps, it is argued, we should encourage our children to become plumbers and builders. Yet this too misses an important trend now heaving into view — the mass rollout of humanoid service robots. Such robots will be cheap, tireless, and unable to complain. Cloud-connected and AI-enabled, they will be able to access the compressed summation of the entire body of human knowledge. The competitive logic of inter-company competition means these robots will get better and better, with billions of dollars being poured into boosting their ability to manipulate the physical world. Where, exactly, are human workers meant to compete?

Scale provides bargaining power. In an era of AI, global tech giants, and unabashed geopolitics, Britain’s collective self-interest requires all the scale it can muster. A traditional argument in favor of automation is that automation brings its own economic rewards; the profits from high-producing firms will boost the tax base and spread throughout the economy. Yet here, too, we have a problem — for the United Kingdom is heavily reliant upon US tech firms. It lacks its own AI models, and it lacks a strong robotics sector.  Foreign-owned technology will be taking British jobs, and there is no guarantee that new British jobs will emerge to absorb the unemployed. The only entity capable of extracting resources from foreign companies, and the only entity capable of doing this while also representing the public interest, will be the state. To split the state — to create one, or even three, new weak and fractious states upon Great Britain — is to smash democratic leverage over foreign capital.  

Managing technological change requires a strong state; so too does environmental breakdown. If automation is transforming the basis of the economy; global warming is transforming the material basis of society. By the 2050s, the world is likely to reach 2C of global warming. At 2C, sea levels will rise, droughts will increase, and crop yields decline. Yet 2C is itself a consensus scenario; other forecasts posit a rise as high as 3C or 4C. A few decades on, the earth will be even hotter. Under conservative estimates, we can expect the planet to be 3C hotter by the 2070s. Much of the world will be rendered uninhabitable; productive areas will suffer severe environmental stress, lowering agricultural productivity; major cities will be underwater. 

Environmental collapse will breed political instability. Within the more vulnerable regions, economies will falter and fail. Failing states will descend into conflict, and migrants will move in their millions. In October 2025, the UK Joint Intelligence Committee found that “every critical ecosystem is on the pathway to collapse.” Such collapse will drive migration, and however far away it may seem, such turmoil will affect Britain. Collapsing supply chains will affect our food security. Migrant flows and climate breakdown will increasingly affect international politics, and with it the security needs of the British state. 

An independent Scotland, possessed of nominal armed forces, would be unable to extend effective protection over its own territory. This would harm the people of Scotland; it would also harm the interests of those further south. Scottish independence also poses problems of hard power. Should it secede, the remnant United Kingdom would lose one third of its landmass, over 80% of its oil & gas production, most of its offshore wind resources, and 8% of its population. These figures are not artifacts of academic curiosity — they speak to the core security needs of the British state, and the British people as a whole. The only construct with the collective power and the popular legitimacy capable of navigating us through the storms ahead is that of the nation. As such, it must be rebuilt. The fact we need to rebuild it at all speaks to a fundamental constitutional failure — devolution.

Devolution has failed. It has failed not only because it was wrong; it has failed because it was stupid. Its planners and progenitors imagined it would strengthen the British Union, and provide better local government. They were mistaken, and misunderstood what a nation actually is. The classic account came from Benedict Anderson, who typified nations — nations, not ethnicities — as “imagined communities”. A nation is a group of people who, despite multitudinous variations of place, class, language or religion, imagine themselves to be, in some crucial sense, the same. Imagination brings them together, and imagination sustains them. Imagination is sustained and spread through stories and institutions, and rituals — the shared consciousness created by a “national” newspaper, participating in a “national” elections, or enjoying “national” sports. A nation is not an inevitability, one brought into being by the ineluctable forces of history; these forces do not exist. A nation is a choice, a discourse, and a project.

Elites build nations, for it is they who create and shape the institutions and stories which bind them together. Bismarck created modern Germany; Cavour constructed Italy; Ataturk wrought Turkey from the ruins of Ottoman collapse. Kings, presidents, and prime ministers rely in turn on the civil service — the teachers and administrators who, fanning out within their territorial borders, inculcate their people in the patterns and practices that will bind them together. From Egypt to Vietnam, the modernist states of the 19th and 20th century sought to engage in nation-building, to wield coherent peoples from their disparate groupings of faith, dialect, geography, and occupation. 

Britain’s elite, however, has done the opposite; it has chosen to dissolve the British nation. Blind to the lessons of the past, heedless to the risks of the future, Britain’s leadership class has spent 30 years reifying new nations within its borders. In devolution, and in the devaluing of Britain’s institutions, our leaders are dissolving the ties that bind this island together. The United Kingdom is a composite polity, one born in the union of different jurisdictions, ethnicities, and creeds. Scotland, Ireland, England and Wales existed long before the United Kingdom, as did the local identities of their inhabitants. The United Kingdom, and with it the British people, were born in the Union of these entities. It is the peculiarity of the British elite that they chose to limit their own nationhood via devolution — to place back in these pre-existing forms the power of imagination, the ability to create community, and the story-building institutions of political and institutional life. 

Devolution did more than strengthen local government — it created and strengthened new “imagined communities”, communities away from and in direct contrast to Britain as a whole. The advocates of devolution showed a basic failure to consider history, institutions, and human nature. They failed to consider that newly-created parliaments, populated and staffed by ambitious new legislators, might naturally seek to increase their own power. It is in the nature of institutions to seek power, and of individuals to seek power within them. The new Scottish Parliament was founded in 1999; the Welsh Assembly was opened in the same year. Devolution handed core responsibilities of the state over to the new parliaments. In both cases, but particularly so in Scotland, local nationalists have used these powers to begin corroding the British state. We see this more clearly in education and in health. 

The SNP party state has utilized control of the education system to strengthen its power and to undermine the basis of the British state. It has developed school history curricula to promote anti-English and anti-British sentiment. In 2008, it announced free university tuition for Scottish Undergraduates and citizens of the European Union; meanwhile, English students had to pay full tuition fees. Whereas 30% of Welsh students and 20% of Northern Irish students go to university elsewhere in the UK, 93% of Scottish students remain in Scotland — meaning they do not have the lived experience of the British Union. Graduates now make the core of SNP support.

Health policy shows how devolution hacks at the core collective experiences of British life. It is a truism of British public life that the NHS is the closest we have to a state religion. Its needs, its rituals, and its requirements form some of the core issues of our politics, and a primary focus of public sentimentality. Yet “our NHS” is seen less and less as a collective enterprise. In 1999, control of the NHS in Scotland was devolved to the new parliament. During the pandemic, devolved control over health policy gave rise to endless opportunities for nationalist posturing. Sturgeon’s regular health appearances appeared designed to undercut those of the British Prime Minister. There were leaks of information, and pre-emptions of UK-wide announcements. More importantly, the ability of the SNP-led government to impose different lockdown rules to those of England and Wales further underlined and created the appearance of Scottish separation. In a very real sense, Scottish people had a different pandemic; a core collective experience was instead turned into an opportunity for separatist consciousness formation. Every time Nicola Sturgeon addressed Scotland on its pandemic policy, and every time Mark Drakeford made his own announcements in respect to Wales, a further blow was dealt to the imagined community of the United Kingdom. 

Westminster’s disregard for nation-building, its fundamental lack of seriousness, was further underlined in its haphazard and casual approach to the 2014 referendum. Whereas states with written constitutions require supermajorities for major constitutional changes, the 2014 referendum was allowed to proceed on bare 50/50 vote — leaving a decision of the utmost historical gravity prey to basic questions of turnout or rounding errors. Despite the UK’s centuries-long heritage as a unified polity, one marked by the movement and intermixing of peoples across its regions, the vote was restricted only to those who could claim Scottish residency. Scots resident in London, Manchester, Belfast, or Cardiff — in other words, the Scots who might most fully embrace the Union itself — were barred. By accepting the debate could occur only in Scotland, among those resident only in Scotland, the UK leadership accepted a fundamental weakening of its position, and an implicit dismissal of the idea of Union. In devolution, and in the Scottish Referendum, Britain’s elite gave an intellectual surrender.

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The UK has been and is capable of change. Tom Nairn famously viewed the Anglo-British state as “Ukania” — an absurd relic, frozen in premodern form by a premature bourgeois revolution. Far from being a modern nation state, he saw it as an essentially imperial construct, founded and maintained in order to undergird the far-flung hegemony of a London-led empire. His view is paralleled by that of David Edgerton, for whom pre-War Britain was not so much a nation state as the governing and coordinating node in a world economic system. To Edgerton, however, a “British nation” came into being during the 20th century. This British nation was born in central planning, the pressure of war, and a postwar emphasis on material self-sufficiency. Through these, and in the moral narrative of the Second World War, a distinctive new national identity was forged. 

Today, the British elite must once again learn to embrace nation-building. We must make people feel British, and promote or rebuild the institutions that encourage them to do so; only then can the UK endure. The collapse of the United Kingdom is not pre-ordained; nothing is. Instead, it is a matter of chance, contingency, and will. The UK may or may not be an absurd construct, as Nairn considered. But in a world without order, one shorn of higher powers, to live means to embrace the absurd. As a Frenchman once wrote: “The realization that life is absurd cannot be an end, but only a beginning.”

And sometimes it is filled with visitors. It is the marriage of the two constructs, chapel and data center, and the unusual power of the apparatus within the stone walls, that give this site its appeal. It is something sorely lacking in Torre Girona’s rather less lovely cousins: the thousands of data centers now under urgent worldwide construction.

In Britain, America, and the West at large, data centers are loathed. So deep is this public opprobrium that, since 2023, $85bn of American data-center projects have been canceled. From Fife to Devon, similar revolts are underway in Britain. In East London, the former Truman Brewery will now, thanks to an intervention by the housing secretary, Angela Rayner, become the scene of a redevelopment that includes a data center — but not without incurring the anger of local mandarins and campaigners.

The Truman Brewery project had its own local difficulties, but any given data center development will tend to arouse a predictable set of complaints. One accusation is that data centers overuse energy, which is used to power the computing equipment and keep it cool; another is that they overuse water, which is another component of some data centers’ cooling systems.

The accusations are sometimes misleading. Data centers’ use of water is overstated, and modern cooling systems use less than older ones. Data centers are hungry for energy, but they are responsible for only a tiny proportion of Western nations’ energy use. It’s true that our decrepit and highly regulated power grids are ill-placed to increase their capacity by even 1% per year — but our paralysis has caused tech barons to invest, with notable success, in geothermal, nuclear and even fusion power. Hyperscalers’ data centers might yet spur considerable improvements in the provision of clean energy.

Protesters stand on firmer ground when they complain about noise (data centers hum incessantly, and roar when they resort to generators), jobs (once data centers are completed, they don’t need many people per square foot), slop (where did you think those AI-generated videos are made?) and their own economic obsolescence. The most powerful AI models, those that are already beginning to automate human labor, are trained, of course, in data centers. In the late-18th century, the Luddites were driven to fury by industrial looms that were human-operated. Imagine how furious they would have been if the looms needed no human hand at all — or were designed to automate all human labor entirely. That, of course, is the promise, or threat, of today’s frontier labs.

Still, the neo-Luddite pitchforks might not need dusting off just yet. The labor market currently appears more resilient, what with all the premiums it places on tacit knowledge and in-person competence, than pessimists might have feared — at least for now. The defenders of data centers can also argue that their output isn’t entirely slop. Data centers are also important infrastructure in humanity’s endeavors to discover new industrial materials, improve computational biology, and maintain miraculous but quotidian services such as Google Maps, cloud storage, and accurate weather forecasts. They will also be central to the brewing revolution in robotics. Finally, there is the more Molochian argument that if someone’s going to build the data centers, and therefore collect the tax receipts and seize some geopolitical leverage, it might as well be the British. 

But it is understandable that the public has reservations — and if Big Tech is worthy of the public’s suspicion, then one clue is in the data centers’ aesthetics. Torre Girona is one of a tragically small band of data centers that are anything other than appalling eyesores. There are enchanting examples of this category: a former coal mine in Svalbard, a converted chapel in Leeds, and a supervillain-style bunker in the bedrock beneath Stockholm. But these are irreproducible at best, gimmicks at worst. To call the average data center a carbuncle would be unduly flattering; at least carbuncles have some color in them. A typical data center, however, is a vast and windowless gray box. The exterior of such a building says nothing about its locality and history, nothing about what services they seek to render humanity. Instead, most data centers look like blank statements of disinterested cheapness, embodiments of the attitude that might condemn most of humanity to the status of, as it is sometimes described, the “permanent underclass”. To make their point, the enemies of data centers need do little more than share pictures. “Is this what we want for our country?” they ask. 

Ironically, data centers enable the very capabilities that can be used to reimagine them. Every now and then, someone goes viral on X for posting a mockup of, say, a data center that looks like a castle; or for arguing that data centers, since they produce so much heat, “should obviously be built in the style of Georgian and Victorian glass houses, filled with citrus trees and other exotic plants”. Infused with Anglofuturist zeal, the Government recently announced the creation of a data center design contest. Data centers, argued Kanishka Narayan, the AI minister, ought not to be “anonymous, gray buildings that our communities are asked to simply tolerate. Infrastructure should say something different. It should say your community matters, that you are part of the national story that you are helping to power into the future.”

Whether the Royal Institute of British Architects (RIBA) is the right partner for this prize is debatable. RIBA’s Stirling Prize generally rewards architecture that, in its placeless modern blandness, pleases architects rather than stirs the public. This new partnership, one suspects, is less likely to produce noble new cathedrals than a few larch-clad eco-warehouses. Yet the Government has little option but to try to get the public onside, for there is an international bidding war for data centers. Apart from generating tax revenue for their hosts, local data centers facilitate activity that requires a quick and ideally proximate connection between one computer and another. If you’re using AI to help maintain the National Grid, or you’re running a factory production line that uses robotics, or you’re about to go under the knife of a robot surgeon, then you’ll want a data center near you rather than in, say, Virginia. And if you dislike the idea of Britons’ health data being stored abroad, then the corollary of that view is that the data should be stored on British soil. Whether we are trying to achieve sovereignty or, more humbly, solvency, we need data centers.

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And we are behind. The US has three times as much data-center capacity as Britain, with much more planned. But the American public’s more organized opposition to data centers, with Erin Brockovich playing a prominent part, gives middle powers an opportunity to take up a larger share of the global AI economy. All parties, though, face a menacing competitor, for the migration into space has already begun. Elon Musk plans to send xAI data centers into orbit, thus circumventing — or rather, soaring far above — the physical and regulatory obstacles one finds on Earth. In this case, the immediate benefit to the general public is significantly lessened. Devon County Council stands little chance of collecting tax revenue from an xAI orbital cluster. 

This makes the task of improving data centers, and winning round a skeptical public, even more pressing. It is unfortunate for Britain, as for most of the West, that this challenge presents itself after several decades in which cheap nuclear energy has been neglected, Big Tech has alienated the public, and oikophobic architects and regulators have made crowd-pleasing civic design a modern rarity. 

And yet it is possible to at least remember civic infrastructure capable of provoking enthusiasm. Shipbuilding towns were proud of the vessels they built together: many years after the shipyards closed, local newspapers still wax nostalgic. Battersea Power Station, that brooding brick hulk, was designed by Giles Gilbert Scott as an art deco cathedral to industry. It was not universally popular at the time of its inception, but it has been preserved long after it was decommissioned. Even sewage infrastructure can be resplendent: Joseph Bazalgette’s Crossness Pumping Station is a remarkable feat of colorful neo-Gothicism. Other buildings of a similar age — the V&A, the Natural History Museum — use statue and ornament to trumpet their contents. Perhaps, given this history, there is a version of the future in which people are excited to welcome new infrastructure, even data centers, safe in the knowledge that it will benefit their town visually, financially, and even spiritually.

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The problem is that, as economies advance, much of life becomes further divorced from what we naturally find meaningful. Few in the West work together, with their hands, on products as tangible as a ship. Checking a data center’s air con system somehow lacks the romance of shipbuilding. And on the rare occasions that we build railway stations, or anything else, cheap materials and gloomy designs are almost universally preferred to characterful local alternatives. Data centers, in their lonely, empty ugliness, are a symptom of these trends rather than a particularly egregious example of them.

That makes the challenge even harder. Welcome though more attractive designs might be, it is not enough to plaster the planet with data centers that happen to be housed in ersatz chapels or plastic castles. Instead, the designers of genuinely publicly-spirited data centers, with hyperscalers and governments taking particular responsibility, must find some way of expressing, through architectural form, what these buildings could mean for humanity. In this respect, Battersea Power Station and the V&A are more inspiring templates than an Amazon fulfillment center.

The apparently trivial matter of data center aesthetics therefore cuts to the heart of what AI is really for. Often, what the opprobrium towards data centers really signals is public fear of impotence, uselessness, and exploitation of the commons. If AI is to transform the world, then the default outcome is not necessarily one that puts human dignity at its heart. Yet it is the role of aesthetics, even in the disembodied realm of AI, to remind us what to strive towards. And in a time of acceleration, disenchantment and disorientation, that role could scarcely be more important. 

Yet Magnifica Humanitas only incidentally concerns the promise and peril of the AI revolution. A closer examination reveals that Leo’s ultimate project is nothing less than a defense of moral and political universalism — the collective struggle for “a universal truth about the good, knowable by human reason,” as the pope puts it — just when universal reason is menaced on every side by various irrationalisms.

Put another way: amid the ruins of modernity’s great emancipatory universalisms — liberalism, socialism, “positive science” — Leo is reminding us that there is a much older mode of universal reason, blending revelation and classical philosophy, preserved by the Catholic Church. And that Rome, with its “dynamic approach to the Gospel,” isn’t afraid to acknowledge the achievements of exhausted modernity, nor to collaborate in its renewal today.

That collaborative element — Leo’s tipping of his mitre to the United Nations, multilateralism, abolitionist and labor movements, and the like — renders the encyclical supremely unfashionable. Not least among neo-traditionalists within the Church, for whom the document harks back to the heyday of Vatican II and the midcentury moment that saw theologians and hierarchs embrace projects like global governance.

The Christian malcontents are already tsk-tsking the document for a supposed failure to cite Aquinas (there are several citations to the Angelic Doctor, in fact). They are labeling the pope a UN-besotted “Boomer” (is there a worse epithet today?) and griping that he isn’t radically anti-modern enough.

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The pope appears to have anticipated the backlash. Blind faith in markets and technology, he suggests, is far from the only latter-day irrationalism. Others include “fundamentalist, identity-based, and nationalistic reactions” that have been stoked by the failure of capitalism and technocracy since the end of the Cold War to “generate prosperity, democracy, and stability.” It isn’t hard to imagine Leo classing ultra-trad Catholics — the type who use the latest iPhone to post online laments about such “modernist” innovations as the Luminous Mysteries of the Most Holy Rosary — as one more species of insurgent fanatic.

Yet like it or not, the pope’s approach — combining a classical and Christian account of the human person with openness to modern means for social emancipation — goes back to the previous Pope Leo, Leo XIII, who inaugurated modern Catholic Social Teaching with his 1891 encyclical, Rerum Novarum.

For starters, Leo XIII recognized that the organization of social and economic life implicates the salvific mission of the Church and therefore the Church can’t stand neutral in relation to it. Writing in the teeth of the Industrial Revolution, that earlier Leo beheld around him “the enormous fortunes of some few individuals and the utter poverty of the masses” and a resulting “moral degeneracy.”

More fundamentally, Leo XIII saw modern market societies as characterized by a constitutive antagonism: “social antagonism [that] erupted not in spite of, but as a result of people acting rationally within the rules of the game,” as I’ve written elsewhere. Under industrial conditions, a handful of firms dominated most sectors, giving employers nearly all the bargaining power, with the result that workers didn’t enjoy the freedom promised to them on paper. 

On paper, the employee could always find a better wage or better working conditions elsewhere. In reality, most workers found themselves coerced and cornered as a result of the disparities in power generated by markets. “The richer class have many ways of shielding themselves,” Leo observed, “whereas the mass of the poor have no resources of their own to fall back upon.”

Here Leo XIII’s classical and Christian anthropology came in: workers aren’t just another production input, but human beings with rights due them as a matter of “justice.” These rights, not least the right to a family wage, must be upheld by the state and promoted by associations, the “most important” of which are “workingmen’s associations” — i.e., labor unions. 

Note: a living wage under Catholic Social Teaching is not a matter of charity or the personal virtue or feudal honour of the employer. I mention these other possibilities — charity, virtue, honour — to highlight the way in which the Leonine teaching combines classical and Christian anthropology with modern politics. 

It’s classical in its anthropology: the worker is a human being with a family to maintain and the natural imperative to participate in civil society; if he’s materially desperate, his family falls to immorality and he can’t take part in other societies like church and politics. 

It’s modern in that Leo XIII notably didn’t decry industrial production as such. He didn’t hanker for the restoration of feudal relations or a return to the land or small-producerism or other such fantasies of the Tweed Jacket Class. At some level, he accepted that there is no “going back behind” of modernity. 

The answer for Leo XIII, rather, lay in just wages enforced by the state and in labor organizations mounting what he called “united action” (what we now call “collective action”). In this way, Leo XIII, decades before Vatican II, brought the Catholic Church into conversation and collaboration with modern universalist emancipatory movements: the US New Deal, the British Labour party, and social and Christian democracy in continental Europe all bear his imprint.

His later successor Benedict XVI, often inaccurately framed as an arch-conservative, would bring this synthesis of the classical and the modern to its culmination with his famous 2006 assertion that “in many respects, democratic socialism was and is close to Catholic social doctrine and has in any case made a remarkable contribution to the formation of a social consciousness.”

Leo XIV is perhaps more cautious. Nevertheless, the same general pattern — an insistence on the human person as possessed of divine dignity; a willingness to engage with modernity in protecting that dignity — is easily discernible in Magnifica Humanitas. 

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Citing Leo XIII, the American pope begins with the insistence that “the proclamation of the Gospel cannot overlook the concrete lives of people.” While there is an “autonomy of worldly affairs” and two distinct communities — the secular and the ecclesiastical — nevertheless the people of God are called to “promote structural reforms.” Why? Because the Church can’t extricate her activities from “social relations,” nor “consider herself a stranger to the forces shaping society.” In short: “There is no authentic evangelisation that does not also affect the structures of human society.”

Scanning the social horizon of the 21st century, Leo XIV doesn’t see only horror and decline. He doesn’t think that ours is a uniquely accursed age: “I am convinced that the concrete way of living out social relationships in the light of the Gospel is not established once and for all, but remains a task entrusted, from generation to generation, to the Christian community. . .  For this reason, I encourage all members of the Church not to be afraid of the present challenges.”

The present challenges, to his mind, are AI and what he calls the “normalization of war” (a geopolitical phenomenon he worries might be exacerbated by AI and other developments in so-called defence-tech). AI, he warns, could lead to the logics of efficiency and profit crowding out all others — a radical acceleration of the “technocratic paradigm.” The symptoms include screen addiction, the potential for mass joblessness, and the imposition of tech bosses’ worldview on the masses under the facade of “objective” information.

At the deepest level, he fears, AI could strengthen an “anti-human vision.” Meaning one in which “the fullness of life is equated with having more, reducing weakness, eliminating uncertainty, and exerting total control.” The problem with this is that weakness, uncertainty, and finitude are central to what makes us human. They are a source of creativity and of empathy for the vulnerable other (who is finally vulnerable, as we ourselves are).

“A technology that merely classifies and optimizes what already exists can … become an obstacle to change and growth,” he notes in my favourite passage. “For an algorithm, an error is a flaw to be corrected; for a person, however, an error can be a catalyst for profound change.”

In the face of these threats, however, you won’t find any calls for a general ban against AI in this encyclical, no fatwas launching a Butlerian Jihad. On the contrary, Magnifica Humanitas is full of praise for AI’s potential to eliminate “arduous, repetitive or dangerous tasks and to provide intelligent support for human activity.” In this, Leo XIV follows Pope Francis, who in one of his final statements as pontiff, was hopeful that AI might “introduce important innovations in agriculture, education, and culture, an improved level of life for entire nations and peoples, and the growth of human fraternity and social friendship.”  

As with manufacturing in Leo XIII’s time, the question is how to orient these “new things” to the dignity of the human person and the common good of the whole. Here, just as Leo XIII didn’t rest content with the virtue of the factory owners, so our Leo insists that a few men in California can’t have unchallenged say-so. Rather, Leo XIV envisions a role for the states as well as the “transnational institutions” that took shape in the wake of the last century’s horrors. The Catholic principles of subsidiarity holds that when a problem is too large for national authorities, it must be addressed at a higher level by some sort of “world authority,” as Saint John XXIII envisioned it in his Cold War encyclical Pacem in Terris.

Such a problem, Leo XIV feels, is AI. Hence, the new encyclical’s unfashionable emphasis on transnational governance and political universalism. Contrary to his critics on the American Catholic Right, neither is a quaint relic of the pope’s Boomer generation. Both, rather, go to the heart of his Catholic political rationality. This is the Church, as Augustine described her: tam antiquam, tam nova!

Heroes are born in the denial of death. To Ernst Becker, writing in the Seventies, this is the root of human character, and of human heroism. Fearing death, we strive to make meaning, to achieve cosmic significance through that which lies beyond ourselves. Heroes are born in this struggle, yet so too is tragedy — for the cosmic impulse of the hero can come to justify any sacrifice.

Today, Elon Musk would bring humanity to Mars, foster abundance on Earth, and seed intelligence across the stars. To him, we stand alone in the universe — a dim and flickering light of consciousness set amid an endless dark. Bound to a single planet, this light is at risk — and so, using SpaceX, we must settle Mars. Through Tesla, Musk plans to “end scarcity” — to engineer a world free from want, a place of “sustainable abundance” powered by the limitless light of the sun and served by millions of robots. Enabling these transformations will be intelligence — the intelligence of artificial minds, built from and operating within a vast orbital infrastructure of computation. With abundance assured, and bound no longer by the limits of earthly physics, these minds would then be free — free to observe, analyze, and colonize the universe.

Musk’s vision begins and ends in the problem of meaning. Should they come into fruition, his plans would forever undermine the salience, the power, even the meaning, of nations, states, markets, and the societies that undergird them. He would birth a new form of power: the AGI platform state. Yet the scale of his ambition makes even this warning seem parochial — for Musk, in truth, aims  to break the fundamental constraints of our existence. In doing so he risks not just humanity, but meaning itself.

We live in an age where the wildest precepts of science fiction have become not only imaginable, but investable. That this is so owes much to Elon Musk. Erratic, distractable, willfully controversial, he is nevertheless an industrial titan, a man who with any one part of his portfolio would have made an enduring mark on the annals of mankind. Through Tesla, he has transformed markets in electric vehicles, solar energy and batteries; through SpaceX, he revolutionized satellites, internet access, and space flight. He owns X, one of the world’s leading social media platforms, and xAI, which leverages X data to build Grok, a leading AI system. With Neuralink, he has transformed the ability of humans to interact with machines, providing hope to immobile and paralyzed people across the world. He was a founder of OpenAI, the creator of the world’s first major AI tool; through Optimus, a Tesla subsidiary, he plans to mass produce and commercialize humanoid robots.

Musk is creating the future — and, to read the statements of his companies, it will be a glorious place. Tesla’s stated mission is the elimination of scarcity via sustainable abundance, a world of “global prosperity”, “human thriving”, and “economic growth shared by all”. To Tesla and to Musk, growth is infinite, and innovation removes constraints. This future will be achieved by nothing less than “redefining the fundamental building blocks of labor, mobility and energy at scale and for all” — an extraordinary and, should it come into reality, epoch-making statement of intent. But these dreams of technological liberation, the very real results Musk has already achieved, and the astonishing scope of his ambition, are also creating something else — a vertical stack of power unlike any wielded in human history, and one with the scope to transform the basis of history. The contours of this power structure are increasingly visible through his business deals.

Deal by deal, Musk is refashioning his empire. His companies, previously separate and dispersed, are being consolidated, merged, and floated. At the same time, he is launching new ventures. In 2025, xAI — his AI company, and the owner of Grok — bought X, his social media company. SpaceX, his space flight and satellite business, has now acquired xAI itself.  Sources suggest that the deal valued xAi at $91 billion, and SpaceX at $1 trillion — making it the most valuable private company ever to have existed. On 10 March, Musk announced that X — owned now by SpaceX — is launching a payments platform, xMoney. On the 21st March, Musk announced a further venture — Terafab, a three-way collaboration between Tesla, SpaceX, and xAI, one dedicated to manufacturing semiconductors. SpaceX — a company therefore combining rockets, satellites, artificial intelligence, and shortly payments and chips too — is now planning an IPO. With a valuation as high as $2 trillion, this would be the largest IPO in history, and one with heavenly ambitions — for Musk intends to put a million data centers in space.

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A million data centers in space, a sustainably abundant robot future; few things could seem more absurd. A creature of irony, the object and progenitor of innumerable memes, Musk knows how and when to grab attention of his markets, investors and employees. Throughout his career, he has repeatedly overpromised and under-delivered — in the short run. He promised autonomous driving by 2019, a million Tesla robotaxis by 2020; Mars colonies by 2022; none of these promises quite came true. Musk bullshits, and Musk overpromises. To focus on this, however, would be a mistake. Like him or loathe him, Musk has a history of effecting transformational commercial change, change driven by grandiose ideas of the future. With Musk, above all, we must judge the man not by what he says, but by what he builds.

Behind Musk’s recent deals is a logic of power and control, a logic we would do well to consider. He is aiming for vertical integration — control of energy generation, of computing infrastructure, of data and the sources of data, of internet connectivity, of transport, and control of manual labor. It is a question of power — energetic power, computational power, and commercial power. Control over each enables the greater growth of the other; taken together, they give him end-to-end control over AI, the basis of AI, and the tools through which AI is expressed. Multi-billion dollar valuations suggest we must take his plans seriously — but taking it seriously suggests a vista far greater, far more alarming in scope, than that conjured by even the most hyperactive investment analyst. Musk is betting not simply on growth — he is betting on the singularity.

Read the news, talk with friends, experiment with Claude or OpenAI; something strange, something singular, is occurring all around you. The cognitive capabilities of human beings — our capacity for reason, for language, for calculation — are being scraped, abstracted, and automated. Tasks that would take weeks — designing an image, writing a story, building a financial model, developing an app — can be compressed now into days, hours, minutes. Across the “higher” industries, a tsunami of change approaches. Goldman Sachs estimates that 25% of all American work tasks are exposed to automation, and 300 million workers globally. Administrative, legal, and financial  jobs are particularly vulnerable: 46%, 44%, and 35% of their respective work tasks are currently considered automatable. This may, however, prove to be a severe underestimate — for the AI models are improving at an exponential rate, and automation is not limited to desk jobs, those involving “higher” cognitive skills. In Beijing, Los Angeles, and shortly London, driverless cars now compete with those driven by humans. Humanoid robots are entering use in factories, warehouses, and restaurants; soon we may also see them on the streets, and in our homes; in time, such robots may become no more exceptional than a washing machine, an ordinary item of domestic tooling. Given the imminent reality of both cognitive and physical automation,  another possibility presents itself — one of entirely automated economic activity, of companies led by AI, served by robots, and working to the benefit of AI-controlled shareholders.

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In this world, the relative value of human labor will collapse, machines will recursively self-improve, and capital — the intangible capital of AI models, the physical capital of servers, robots and rockets — will leap into the stars. Wittingly or otherwise, Musk is developing a self-sovereign vertical infrastructure of dominion, one explicitly designed to serve and accelerate this future and the artificial general intelligence it relies on — the AGI platform state, a new state form that is designed to advance the needs not of humans, but of AI. The AGI platform state arises in the infrastructure of disintermediation, physical automation, orbital independence, and the unifying layer of data and intelligence. The tools of the AGI state span energy generation, internet access, satellite technology, payments infrastructure, robotics, data collection, and intelligence itself.

Already, satellite internet shows us how orbital infrastructure side-steps territorial power. Through Starlink, SpaceX now owns 97% of all satellite internet usage. At sea, in warzones, and in remote and isolated areas, thousands of Starlink satellites — solar-powered, and kilometers above the earth — now provide internet access. Business deals deepen this capacity; in 2025, SpaceX acquired the spectrum rights of the telecommunications company EchoStar — providing it with the ability to provide satellite to smartphone internet access, entirely unmediated by terrestrial infrastructure. In great swathes of the planet, internet and cellular access no longer relies upon terrestrial power, disintermediating the state. This is real, highly material power. On the battlefields of Ukraine, Starlink connectivity is a matter of life and death, and one operated at the will of Elon Musk. Russia itself — a high-tech military power, and a leading player in the 20th century space race — relied heavily on Starlink; when Musk withdrew access, they lost territory.

If SpaceX side-steps state control of communication, then xMoney is designed to side-step banks. In time, it may also side-step sovereign control of money. Envisioned as an “everything app”, xMoney will enable peer-to-peer fiat payments, a debit card, and cash deposits — circumventing banks, and the states that rely on banks. Fiat money, of course, requires the state — but what if xMoney accepts crypto? Musk — aka “the Dogefather” — is a well-documented lover of cryptocurrencies, in particular that of Dogecoin. Should xMoney accept crypto, or issue its own crypto, backed perhaps by the assets of SpaceX, this would be a further sign of independent ambition — for it would be uncontrolled by any sovereign state. This matters for power today, and power tomorrow. Little appreciated outside blockchain circles is the role of stablecoins and cryptocurrencies in facilitating the AI agent economy. Peer-to-peer microtransactions, conducted at digital speeds, are likely to be the basis for economic exchange between robots — thus enabling a whole new sphere of economic activity, and one with decreasing ties to states. xMoney is tied to X.com — a pairing of individuals’ financial access with social media activity. Both, of course, will generate data: the primary input into AI models, and a central power resource in the age of AI. Data, and the power derived from data, is at the core of Musk’s vertical mission — and we can see this reality embodied in Tesla.

Tesla is the world’s most valuable carmaker — but it is much more than that. It is an industrial force, a multi-market behemoth, and the centerpiece of Musk’s plans for terrestrial power. A public company, it holds $1.31 trillion in market capitalization, placing it among the world’s 10 most valuable businesses. It holds a 59% share of the American electric vehicle market, and — though subject to increasingly strong competition — 7.7% of the global market. To develop the company, and with it to revolutionize the global EV market, Tesla has repeatedly re-imagined the limits of EV technology and industrial practices — extending the range of EVs, bringing battery production in-house at highly-automated “gigafactories”, and refining the interior, software-first design of the automotives themselves. The needs of Tesla products are reshaping entire industries. Electric vehicles require batteries, and the electricity to power them. Through developing its own EV-capabilities, Tesla has also become a leading player in renewable energy. Through Megapack, a battery designed to support power grids, it is a global top-three producer of large battery storage systems; through Powerwall it is a leading supplier of batteries to store solar energy in consumers’ homes, and holds over a third of the US market.

Tesla is now switching to robotics. In a recent Tesla earnings call, Musk announced that Tesla would cease production of Model S and Model X cars; the factory space would instead be used to produce Optimus robots. Musk claims he will soon create one million humanoid robots a year, but he has competition. From Boston Dynamics to China’s Unitree and Agibot, others are also rushing to enter the industry. The opportunity is vast; analysts predict that humanoid robots represent a $5 trillion market, and that within 30 years they may number in the billions. No competitors, however, will have what Musk hopes soon to control — an independent stack of energy generation, energy storage, compute, payments, data, and satellite connectivity. Here, infrastructure converges with automation — for Musk will have built an army, the resources to power it, and the tools to control it.

Operating within Tesla’s EVs and Optimus robots is Grok, Musk’s proprietary AI. Grok demonstrates that the thread between social media, a new payment app, humanoid robots, and electric vehicles is data — data, and the role of data in driving, enabling, and empowering artificial intelligence. The role of X in social media and, soon, financial transactions means it will hold a vast and ever-evolving database on our needs, concerns, and desires. Covered in sensors, interacting with a non-predictable, changeable physical world, each Tesla EV and Optimus robot is also an ongoing source of data, data through which the world can be observed, controlled, and manipulated. To manage this data, and to carry out actions on the basis of it, Musk needs AI. In turn, that AI needs computational power and the energy to generate that power — at vast scale. It is here that Musk seeks something truly new — energy in orbit. To harness this energy would be to transform history.

Economic life relies on power — the ability to convert the surrounding energy flows, those of wind, of wave, or splitting of an atom — into work. Above all other sources of energy, we rely on fire — the light of the distant sun, and on the fires we ourselves create here on earth. Harvested and metabolized by organic processes, solar energy is the basis of planetary life, and with it our existence. Our ability to harness that energy, and to channel that power, is what has led to the growth and spread of humanity.

Since the beginning of the industrial age, national power has been based upon the ability of states to extract, dominate and control the congealed light of the sun. Britain, blessed by providence with extraordinary reserves of shallow-lying coal, birthed and led the industrial revolution. Germany, France, Russia, Japan, the United States and China similarly burned coal to industrialize. Petroleum, mined in the Middle East and elsewhere, underlines the core processes of our lives, providing fuel, fertilizers, plastics, and much else besides. Without oil, and without coal, the global economy would collapse. Control these energy sources — control fire — and you control the earth. Iran, the homeland of fire-cults, thus now holds the world to ransom via the Straits of Hormuz.

Musk seeks to step outside of this power, and in doing so, conquer it — for Musk, like Prometheus, seeks to conquer fire. SpaceX seeks to place a million satellites into space: orbital data centers, placed there to harness the power of the sun. Data centers on Earth run up against physical limits — the need for land, the need for water, the need to compete with other human demands for energy consumption. Space, meanwhile, is limitless — literally so in spatial terms, and practically so in regards to solar energy. The earth receives only about half a billionth of the sun’s energy, yet the entire solar system is bathed in the light of the sun. Parked in space, solar cells could theoretically harvest more energy than that currently produced by the entire earth. Through SpaceX, Musk thus plans to build a hyperscaler, one “bigger than Oracle”; this resource will be used to power AI on earth and in the heavens.

In themselves, these plans would represent a profound disruption in global affairs. They would break the territorial link between energy generation and political power. A thousand kilometers from the surface of the earth, a new reality will come into being — one of energy generation, and machine computation, conducted beyond the easy reach of people, of democracies, and states. Unable to physically access these facilities, or to strangle their sources of energy, most states would be unable to control Musk, his satellites, his robots, or his AI. For now, a handful of governments possess the orbital weapons necessary to kill satellites, but they too may face a problem. Musk is predicting, planning and promoting an exponential, potentially uncontrollable, growth in machine power. Should this occur, even superpowers may lose their potency against the machines.

Grok — powered by orbital computers, trained upon the data-feeds of Musk’s vast business empire, and acting in the world via AI agents and Tesla robots — will be Musk’s engine of control in the future he sees awaiting us. This is a power base for the Singularity, but Musk is by no means sanguine that he or anyone else can control it. He envisions a world without work for humans, a place where exponential increases in intelligence enable and merge with exponential increases in robot capability, creating a “supernova” of recursive improvement. In this new world, one that Musk expects to arrive within a decade, “corporations that are purely AI and robotics will vastly outperform any corporations that have people in the loop”. Humanity will be dwarfed by the machine; Musk predicts that “in five or six years, AI will exceed the sum of all human intelligence. If that continues, at some point human intelligence will be less than 1% of all intelligence.” At some point, he believes, the intelligence of the machines will so outstrip humanity that efforts at control will be meaningless. Robots, driven by nothing more than an urge to “understand the universe”,  will propagate intelligence across the stars — intelligence that may or may not include humans and human consciousness.

Picture, if you will, the sci-fi future that Musk seeks to reify. On land, labor is becoming meaningless. Our higher economic functions — planning, trading, analyzing — are carried out by AI agents; our “lower” functions are being carried out by robots. In offices, homes, and factories, an ever-expanding fleet of machines is carrying out tasks once reserved for humans. Cloud-connected, AI-enabled, each is able to call upon the compressed knowledge of humanity, a knowledge constantly updated by real-time data flows. Unable to compete, millions, then billions of workers, are left unemployed. Coordinating, directing, and mining these data flows are the satellites of SpaceX, their numbers expanding every year. Politicians are concerned, but their power is slipping away; states struggle to control the system above, and earthly power is increasingly delegated to the machines. Freedom is meaningless, for there is nothing to spend, nothing to do, and nothing to decide. Markets and political processes no longer lie in the hands of citizens; they lie, at best, with a handful of oligarchs, the controllers of AI infrastructure. Resistance is pointless; predicted, analyzed, prevented in advance, humanity no longer controls the tools of production, or the levers of power. But then — why and how does one resist? AI is all around you — in your phone, your car, smartwatch, your house, in the ads you see when you walk along the street. It is your friend, your counselor, and your decision maker. Able in seconds to access all the data you have ever produced, it knows you better than you know yourself — and so, in time, it chooses for you.

States could crumble, industries may vanish, the heavens may blaze with the cold light of a million satellites — but the greatest loss, the true question before us, is that of meaning. Musk’s quest for cosmic significance risks dissolving the very conditions that give human life meaning: scarcity, struggle, and agency. In his heroic mission, he risks destroying the basis of heroism itself — our capacity to act, and our capacity to choose. The risk is not that Musk might fail in his greatest ambitions, but that he might succeed.

The British and the Europeans, having held back from joining the American attack on Iran, have been enjoying a sense of collective moral superiority over President Donald Trump. This leaves them unable to see that the United States is executing a geopolitical checkmate that will define the 21st century. The checkmate is that America is now quietly building a new Suez. This new Suez isn’t a trench dug in the sand; it is a pipeline of electrons and light connecting America to the stars.

As a result, the world no longer needs that two-dimensional map of Earth. The new map is three-dimensional. It connects Earth to space and renders terrestrial blockades completely irrelevant. Why are the Americans speeding up the move into space? Because that’s where we find treasures in the form of unlimited energy, unlimited resources, unlimited mining, refining and manufacturing, and control of the most important warfighting domain — space itself. After all, America is fighting the war in Iran mainly from space. The Artemis launch is not a coincidence. It is confirmation of the plan’s progress.

And the plan works like this. If Iran closes the Strait, the closure has absolutely zero impact on a Starlink V3 mesh network beaming tactical data and artificial intelligence from low Earth orbit. The US is now relocating the central arteries of the global economy — computation, communications, intelligence and even energy production — into space, permanently removing them from the reach of earthly geopolitics. Space is the new form of what Leninists called the “commanding heights”. In all, the US is bypassing the earthbound chokepoints with a new supply chain of atoms: safe nuclear energy, light that flows from the sun, and even — via small mobile modular nuclear reactors and the new materials that will make nuclear fusion possible — stars that fly in a box.

While the global media mocks and decries Trump’s warmongering, then, it fails to register the decisive moves on the geopolitical chessboard. Before cornering the Iranian leadership, the US had systematically cut off its cash flows and eliminated its key collaborators, especially across Latin America. In Venezuela, the US took control of the oil supply by removing Nicolás Maduro and cutting a pragmatic deal with his successor. In Mexico, the US removed “El Mencho”, the head of the most important energy-controlling cartel in the country. The result is that these nations don’t dare sell their oil molecules if the US doesn’t approve of it. The US didn’t do regime change; it did regime control and molecule monopoly. The world must buy American now.

The US wins both ways. It has the molecules that matter. Chip production depends on helium, and the world’s largest helium reserve is now in Abilene, Texas. While the world shuts down fertilizer plants for lack of the ammonia and nitrogen that Qatar can no longer supply, the US has pioneered in the production of green ammonia, which is produced using only water, air, and electricity. By mixing green ammonia with captured carbon, the US now produces green urea, a critical component of fertilizers. When combined, green ammonia and green urea are the first fertilizer in history that is completely delinked from the global natural gas market. That’s the holy grail of resource independence, because it represents a total decoupling of food production from the fossil fuel grid.

In addition, the US now has everything it needs to produce electric vehicles and batteries. Formerly, its supply of sulfuric acid, which is necessary for the production of these products, would have been badly affected by the bombing of Qatar’s Ras Laffan industrial hub. But today, American firms know how to capture sulfur as a byproduct of America’s new nickel and copper mines. What’s more, America can use its home-grown sulfur to turn its phosphate reserves, and those of countries such as Morocco, into even more fertilizer. America is therefore not only the only fertilizer-secure breadbasket left on Earth; it is also beginning to control other countries’ supply of fertilizer.

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The demand for old-fashioned molecules of oil, gas and petroleum byproducts is currently driving a highly lucrative flow of cash into the United States. But that is merely the short-term arbitrage of a dying economic model. The true strategic demand has shifted toward a vastly more sophisticated architecture of power: one based on atoms, electrons, and photons. We are moving away from the crude combustion of dead biology and toward the mastery of next-generation nuclear fission, the pursuit of nuclear fusion, the electron-orchestration that is the essence of digital computation, and the literal beaming of solar light into American power grids. Other Western countries are chasing wind and solar power, which are plagued by intermittency and are limited by battery manufacturing. America, however, is aiming to build baseload capacity fit for multiplying energy demand. In short, it is shooting for the stars.

The question is how long the new nuclear energy transition will take. People think it will take 30 years of regulatory red tape and $30 billion to build a new nuclear power plant. They missed a historic event on 15 February. Hardly any news media covered Operation Windlord, in which small modular reactors (SMRs), based on the reactors that have powered nuclear submarines for decades, were shipped on massive Globemaster C-17 aircraft from March Air Reserve Base, in California, to Hill Air Force Base, Utah. The reactors were then trucked to the Utah San Rafael Energy Lab for testing and evaluation. This was the first-ever air transport of a nuclear microreactor, and therefore a milestone demonstration of deployability.

The Americans are envisioning a world where nuclear power is mobile, distributed, and available on demand any time and anywhere. These innovations are about delinking power from geography. While the legacy world bleeds over massive, vulnerable oil tankers, the atomic future runs on TRISO fuel pellets (tri-structural isotropic particle fuel) that are entirely meltdown-proof and produce zero emissions. This fuel cannot be easily weaponized, for the radioactive material is locked inside diamond-hard poppy-seed-sized ceramic shells. These shells cannot be melted down or easily broken apart, and if they could, it would kill the engineers doing it. The Department of Energy calls it “the most robust nuclear fuel on earth”. No pipelines required. Stars in a box.

Nuclear fusion, in theory an even more transformative source of power, is still derided as being perpetually “50 years away”. But the critics are looking at the wrong bottleneck. The constraint is no longer the atomic material. It is the vessel required to hold the plasma, and the hyper-precise attosecond lasers needed to pulse and manage the hydrogen isotopes: atoms rather than molecules. By doing millions of simulations in minutes, AI is collapsing the time needed to get to fusion. As new materials and AI advance, fusion is on course to become a reality. Not that it’s the only bet being placed by Washington: DARPA, the US military’s innovation unit, recently beamed 800 watts of power across 5.3 miles of open air using a directed laser. Just to flex the absolute audacity of their success, the scientists used the wirelessly transmitted energy to pop popcorn at the other end. Wireless energy transmission is no longer a sci-fi abstraction; it is a reality.

Look at the geopolitical board: Iran is bleeding its resources to control the old, flat molecule-driven economy, while the Artemis program aims to permanently free the US by shifting to the management of atoms, electrons and light. Conquering the cosmos requires abandoning archaic chemical rockets in favor of nuclear-powered spacecraft. Ultimately, it’s a tale of two paradigms: the Artemis generation is building an atomic architecture to entirely unshackle the global economy, while the regime in Tehran is desperately trying to keep a chokehold on the molecules that the global economy currently depends upon.

The US has been explicitly clear about this strategy, though the legacy pundits were too busy laughing at the President to notice. In late 2025, the State Department launched Pax Silica: a strategic framework declaring that if the 20th century ran on oil, steel, and vulnerable maritime chokepoints, the 21st century will run on compute, data, and critical minerals. It is the official, silicon-based replacement for Pax Americana. To physically build this new architecture, the Department of Energy unleashed the Genesis Mission. It is gathering the combined data, capabilities and technologies of the seventeen National Laboratories, including Los Alamos, Lawrence Livermore and Sandia. The goal is to double American R&D output in just 10 years. To do it, Washington is executing a two-part strategy: handing the leading scientists exascale computing power, and allowing AI to access the massive, never-before-tapped vaults of the classified, proprietary data that has been generated by America’s top scientists since the Second World War. This will turn 80 years of compartmentalized and classified science into active training data, enabling scientists to optimize the design of nuclear reactors and discover new alloys that could eliminate foreign supply chain dependence entirely.

Those supply chains are a remnant of the era in which we were bound by what we could extract. We had to shape existing materials into what we needed. A tree, for example, could become a boat. Now we can create new realities by painting with electrons and by constructing new materials, atom by atom, that never existed before. This is how new “metamaterials”, as they are called, are being built. These are artificial structures engineered at the atomic level to bend the laws of physics. For example, instead of relying on natural chemistry, scientists can now build microscopic patterns of atoms and electrons that can manipulate light, radar, and sound, allowing them to construct stealth armor that bends radar around a fighter jet. Google has already discovered over 380,000 new materials and over two million new crystals this way thanks to its new Willow chip, which can be built via similar methods. Formulas are replacing materials. Abundance is replacing scarcity.

That scale of abundance will require a vast amount of energy — and Elon Musk isn’t waiting for SMRs and nuclear fission to supplement American power grids. To sustain his AI endeavors, Musk aims to produce one terawatt of compute (that is, computational power) annually — 50 times the current global capacity. Earth does not have the land, the cooling water, or the power grids to sustain that. So he is relocating intelligence to the heavens. Musk has just announced his plans to open the world’s largest semiconductor factory; 80% of its output is designed for orbital data centers linked by Starlink lasers. Google’s Project Suncatcher is following suit, launching solar-powered satellites designed to harvest orbital energy and beam it down alongside data. The strategy is ruthlessly simple: if the Earth cannot support the future, let the Old World to duke it out on the ground while America moves its economy into space.

Empires are scavengers. We’ve fought brutal wars over mud, powering our civilizations by burning the molecular remains of long-dead biological matter. It was a subterranean era of power. But the Americans have stopped looking down at the old two-dimensional map of the world. By looking up, they are executing a Promethean shift: pulling the physical mechanics of the sun and the stars down to Earth and domesticating these empyrean forces. By packing the heavens into steel boxes, they are intending to power a literal “Golden Age” of human flourishing.

Pundits might laugh at the grandiosity, but they are forgetting the lessons of history. Before 1840, naval power was a hostage to the wind. The deadliest galleon was worthless once the breeze died. Then the British launched HMS Nemesis, the world’s first iron-hulled steam warship. By moving from sails to steam, Britain could power up shallow rivers, shocking military planners. Nemesis decoupled the power of the British Empire from what were thought to be the limits of nature. The Americans are simply doing it again, only this time with atoms instead of steam. Washington is merely reading from Britain’s old playbook.

The irony is that the British once possessed the exact ruthless foresight they are currently failing to recognize in the Americans. In 1911, the Royal Navy was the undisputed master of the seas, running entirely on domestic Welsh coal. It was safe, familiar, and utterly secure. But a young Winston Churchill recognized a brutal truth: comfort is the enemy of supremacy. To gain absolute speed and efficiency, he gambled the survival of the British Empire on the distant oil fields of Persia. In doing so, he helped save the Anglo-Persian Oil Company, now BP. It was, in essence, a battle between, on one side, bureaucrats and Welsh coal barons, who wanted to manage the mud they already owned; and, on the other, a visionary who was willing to trade certain security for absolute supremacy. Abandoning coal seemed madness, but Churchill was right.

Decades earlier, Prime Minister Benjamin Disraeli pulled off an even more audacious masterstroke. He saw that the new geopolitical map was not the open ocean — it was a narrow, yet unbuilt trench though Egypt. In 1875, while Parliament was in recess, Disraeli borrowed £4 million and bought the Suez Canal from a bankrupt Khedive. Disraeli didn’t just buy a canal; he secured the central artery of global power, and locked in a hundred years of naval dominance, even as his rivals were still squinting at the old map. Today, the US is doing the exact same thing with atoms and celestial compute — securing the new Suez before the Old World realizes the canal has moved. Washington is simply running Disraeli’s playbook, but in the stars instead of in the sand.

Some British entrepreneurs understand that a new era is upon us. Space Solar, a startup based in Oxfordshire, aims to beam continuous, clean energy directly from orbit to Earth. Wales-based Space Forge is currently proving that semiconductor manufacturing and in orbit refining is actually more efficient in the vacuum of space. Pulsar Fusion is making progress on the long road to fusion-powered rocketry, and it was Rolls-Royce ingenuity that created the modern SMR. Britain clearly possesses the intellectual capital to make a success of the atomic transition. Europe does too. But for now, they merely tinker on the edge of the three-dimensional map while the Americans aggressively claim the territory. The Chinese and the Saudis are also racing forward. Saudi is training a new generation of scientists at KAUST, its flagship science and technology university, and investing in a wide range of nuclear, solar and space technologies. China is on a par with the US. Others need to catch up.

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Military drones will upend the world

By James Kingston

The endless diplomatic handwringing over Iran’s exact proximity to a traditional nuclear warhead entirely misses the point; their capacity to create a dirty bomb was already a functional reality even if delivery on an ICBM was not. The intentions were clear. When Tehran, which had been negotiating with the US in Geneva earlier this year, finally abandoned the charade, the US delivered a kinetic reminder that its red lines were not suggestions. Iran’s retaliation was a brutal validation of the American thesis. Blindsiding neighbors like Qatar, Saudi Arabia, the UAE, Kuwait, and Bahrain, Tehran demonstrated a terrifyingly precise strike capability, reaching as far as Diego Garcia. The regime also struck desalination plants, crucial to the region’s water supply. Washington successfully eliminated the men in charge, but the molecules remain trapped: oil, gas and especially H20, water. The attacks on desalination plants gave pause to everyone in the region. The chokepoints for water, oil, and natural gas outlived the leadership because the old world economy remains a captive in this geography. Trump offered Europe the only geopolitical strategy the Old World has left: take the molecules while you still can.

The grand, cosmic irony of the current crisis is America’s response to Iran’s nuclear threats. For decades, the West has been agitated by Tehran’s atomic ambitions. Yet the ultimate American counter-move to Iran’s nuclear threat isn’t just a barrage of conventional airstrikes; it is the mass deployment of next-generation nuclear power. It is a new grand strategy of nukes on nukes. How does the US neutralize a hostile regime holding ransom the world’s oil supply? By rapidly building a new nuclear power grid, thus removing Iran’s leverage, and by building a space-based missile defense system that can down incoming Iranian warheads. The US is answering the threat of nuclear extortion with the reality of nuclear emancipation. It does not matter if the stars in a box are not yet fully operational or if nuclear fusion doesn’t happen tomorrow. What’s important is to see the value of the Suez Canal, as Disraeli did, before it is built.

Even as they build the future, the architects of this transition are capable of bungling the present. Trump’s loose lips have offended Mohammed bin Salman and alienated the Qataris, causing the Gulf states to hedge their bets and perhaps to back away from Washington. These are clumsy and avoidable errors. The war in Iran will continue to be messy. Yet the American industrial machine will persist in its celestial pivot. China, having plundered American IP, is following, and so will others once the architecture is proven to work. They’ll soon realize that these historic technological pivots are not optional, whether from sail to steam, from coal to oil, from combustion to compute, or from molecules to atoms.

The fatal flaw of the transatlantic intelligentsia is that they confuse the man with the machine. One may thoroughly loathe Donald Trump, but translating distaste for his manner into an assumption of industrial weakness is geopolitical suicide. The American innovation engine does not care about European sensibilities. While the Old World is busy looking down at the old two-dimensional map, they must soon realize that they are hostage to waterways, muddy ditches, and dictators. Washington, meanwhile, is looking up. The American empire is exchanging molecules for atoms and straits for stars.

With WiFi connections still unavailable on most flights back then, Sacco tuned out the internet for several hours as her plane crossed oceans and continents — before landing and finding her life and career destroyed. By the time Sacco reached Cape Town, millions of Twitter users, including Donald Trump, had branded her a racist and got her fired from her job.

To many internet historians, this episode marks the beginning of the “woke” and cancel culture era, which lasted until about 2022 (or never went away, depending on whom you ask). Yet in retrospect, it’s clear that the Sacco incident epitomizes something else: the era of social media, a fundamentally populist mode of communication that wreaked havoc on rational public discourse and made possible the populist politics, both Left-wing and Right, of the decade that followed.

Now, as artificial intelligence eclipses social media, it is possible that period is coming to a close — ushering in something closer to a new era of technocratic rationality. 

The writer Dan Williams recently made a version of this argument, pointing out that while social media is populist, AI is technocratic (I’ve made a similar contention about social media in the past). If you believe that we’ve suffered from an impoverished public discourse since Twitter took off, there might be good reasons to hope that there is relief right around the corner. While the social-media era was one in which everyone had a voice, and any random person could go viral, AI speaks with authority and is trained on practically the entire corpus of human writing — only, with rational thinking ability and a tilt toward sources deemed credible by elites.

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The Great Stupidisation

By Richard Hanania

This means that the more that AI cannibalizes public discourse, the less conspiratorial and more fact-based it is likely to be. Interestingly, there is evidence suggesting that the American Right — the side that most needs to get back in touch with reality amid the rise of figures like Candace Owens — is making more use of the best tool we have for being able to do so. 

With social media, each individual is his own content producer, and engagement is the coin of the realm. Since most people are either not that smart or not that interested in truth, if not both, the largest social-media accounts tend to be sensationalist and not exactly sticklers for intellectual probity, factual accuracy, or logical coherence. People want to hear about how their tribe is more morally upstanding and righteous, and they enjoy emotionally charged rhetoric and conspiracy theories that make the world seem more legible. AI systems, in contrast, are by definition optimizing for intelligence. People pay for these models because they want accurate representations of the world.

It’s interesting that when you try to program AI to reflect certain political biases, it goes haywire. There was the famous Google Gemini experiment, in which the model was told to add diversity to pictures. The result: early Gemini became a laughing stock after spitting out images of black Nazis. There is also the experience of Grok. When Elon Musk tried to create an “anti-woke” AI, the model started to take after fascistic and Nazi Right-wing accounts. Musk then pulled the plug on this experiment, and since then, Grok behaves much more like other prominent AI models, albeit with a more subtle Right-wing tilt.

The lesson here is profound. Arguably, you can’t create an artificial intelligence that is worth using while also telling it to accept Elon Musk’s view of political reality. The training data and model parameters may skew things in one direction or the other, but there are some limits to what a system can believe and still be, well, intelligent.

This kind of convergence can also be seen among humans. Let’s say you have two individuals who are both highly intelligent, enjoy access to the same sources of information, and have a good-faith interest in finding the truth. They may end up differing in their politics, but they probably won’t differ nearly as much as any two randomly chosen members of the population. Neither will end up believing that communism can work or adopting Hitler’s views on race and geopolitics. They also likely won’t end up believing more humdrum sorts of misinformation, such as 2020 election denialism. There is probably something similar at work with AI. Can you create a model that is good at coding and having rational conversations about the widest possible range of topics — but also thinks that Libs of TikTok is an excellent source of information, superior to what you find in the prestige press?

Theoretically, you could surely design an AI platform that is simply a propaganda machine. Take a highly intelligent system and simply direct it to act as an effective partisan. Such roleplaying is already possible with today’s models. But the thing about conspiracy theories and biased reasoning is that people need to believe they’re getting the information straight in order to be influenced. Individuals rarely wake up and declare, “I want to be brainwashed.” See how often partisan hacks sell themselves as people who are just telling it like it is. All of this is to say: there’s unlikely to be much of a market for an AI marketed as telling you what you want to hear.

One could imagine more subtle biases through market processes. Say Grok wants to appeal to Republicans, and so tilts information in a Right-leaning direction. But given the power of AI, most people are probably going to choose the models that they can gain the most benefit from. Someone made a Right-wing alternative to Amazon called Mammoth Nation, and nobody uses it, because even Republicans are more interested in being able to get shoes delivered to their door quickly than in backing “anti-woke” firms.

In 2021, conservative influencers were hyping a $500 “Freedom Phone” that would allow the user to avoid Big Tech censorship. But it turned out to be a rebranded Chinese Android that normally sold for $119. Most people aren’t considering politics when purchasing goods and services. Thus, they will use the most affordable and useful AI models they can find, instead of looking for products that will shape their thinking about current events.

This raises a natural question, however: why would people who have completely turned against elite institutions — from the mainstream media to their local hospital — trust large language models? Williams points out that LLMs will listen to all your concerns and don’t condescend to you. This is a powerful tool for helping people whose worldview is shaped by Alex Jones and Tucker Carlson podcasts, who do not misunderstand just one or two events, but whose entire picture of reality is warped. Few human individuals have the patience or the time for deprogramming such unfortunate souls. Luckily, AIs don’t get tired or emotionally overwhelmed by human stupidity. And they’re constantly on call.

Take conspiracy theorists. One reason they’re difficult to deal with is that they will often know more about a topic than the ordinary person. Conspiracy theorists spend their lives researching an event. But in doing so, they push the mountain of facts through a distortive filter so that “the Jews” or Freemasons or the Royal Family always end up blamed. No human fact-checker could hope to answer conspiracy theorists’ claims without making a massive time investment just to find out what they’re talking about. Again, AIs solve that problem. A 2024 paper found that LLMs are effective at debunking conspiratorial beliefs, with the effect lasting for months, in part because they could tailor the arguments needed to each specific individual.

Then, too, AIs are so useful that individuals come to trust them in their day-to-day lives. People might ask AI what to say to a love interest, or the best way to lose weight, what their digestion problems are telling them, or how to plan a vacation. In school, they’re constantly relying on it to study and even do their assignments. How do you then turn off your trust when you’re curious about a political or social question? The professional fact-checker also serves as their study buddy, dating coach, nurse, travel agent, and all-around oracle. That’s a powerful combination in terms of improving the quality of people’s thinking — and the quality of public discourse.

I remember my amazement when a year or two ago, I observed my car dripping some kind of fluid in the back and went to AI for help. I took a picture, uploaded it to ChatGPT, and queried it on what was going on. The app asked some questions, and then reassured me that since the fluid was clear, this was simply the natural result of running the air conditioning on a hot day. I remember going to an actual mechanic soon after this happened, recounting the story, and raving about AI and how I couldn’t believe that he wasn’t yet using it in his own business. Now imagine transferring the same feeling of wonder to a machine that also shreds conspiracy theories.

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AI is a gift to my students

By Susan Pickard

In the past few years on X, you might have noticed users interacting with dubious stories or videos by asking, “@grok, is this true?” Epistemology, to be sure, is indeed quite difficult, presenting a profound bundle of questions that even scholars and academics often argue about. It’s overall salutary, however, that people in their day-to-day lives are discovering that AI is a good source of information on a whole host of issues; and that they are, correctly, beginning to assume that listening to AI on politics is better than trying to do their “own research” or talking to people they know, who often share the same cognitive limitations and biases. 

People’s worldviews aren’t built or deconstructed in a single interaction. Your average conspiracy theorist isn’t going to fact-check a few pieces of information and suddenly become rational. But over time, incorporating chatbots into our processes of opinion formation — by means of asking Grok or reading the replies when others do so — could create better intuitions regarding whom and what to believe.

In a new preprint, economics professor Thomas Renault and his co-authors investigate how fact-checking is used in the wild. They investigated all X posts between February 2025 and September 2025 that tagged either Grok or an AI service called Perplexity, analyzing 1,671,841 fact-checking requests. They found that Republican-leaning accounts were more likely to ask whether information was true. Not only that, but Republicans are targeted more for fact-checking, from both fellow Republican (107.5% more) and Democratic (83% more) accounts. Overall, Grok and Perplexity were more likely to say Republicans were not being truthful. Thus, we have the remarkable finding that even though Grok was designed to be anti-woke by Elon Musk, and Republicans are the ones who disproportionately use it, the tool still rates Democrats as more truth-oriented. This is consistent with what we see with community notes, which flag Republican posts more often, along with other data showing that Republicans are more likely than Democrats to share false information on social media, and less able to differentiate fact from fiction overall. None of this is surprising, given that today’s Republican base is both less educated and less likely to interact with credible sources of news.

So we have the interesting and seemingly paradoxical result that Republicans on social media are more reliant on AI, even as it tells them their favorite narratives are more often wrong than those of the other side. This should be seen as a positive sign. We’ve been asking, “What would happen if fact-checkers had infinite time and patience, considered all aspects of problems, and weren’t a bunch of smug Left-wing know-it-alls?” The answer might just be that those who have lost trust in our institutions begin to recover their sanity. 

Even if the crash wiped out only a vocal and desperate minority of leveraged retail traders, it revealed how dependent many Americans, especially young men, are on various forms of gambling for income. Other symptoms of this dynamic included the “Liberation Day” mini-crash in April and the Gamestop stock craze in 2021. The risks that retail traders are taking seem more and more dramatic; a few make millions and post their winnings on Reddit; thousands seek to emulate these gains and get wiped out.

The economy of the 2020s is marked by a nervous, Zyn’d up desperation. The emergence of prediction betting markets like Polymarket, Kalshi, and Robinhood, moreover, suggests that an entirely novel economic system — the casino economy — has emerged from the information economy, the same way the information economy emerged from the midcentury industrial economy. 

Platforms like DraftKings, Robinhood, or Kalshi clearly incentivize us to engage in gambling behavior. And an extremely fragile labor market and future for labor means gambling to survive is increasingly necessary. The crypto crash illuminated, but did not create this reality; gambling (like OnlyFans, to cite another adjacent phenomenon) happens in proportion to a decay in dependable, salaried wage labor.

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The Millennial virtue economy is dead

By Matthew Gasda

We are pushed and pulled into the casino economy. This is an enormously complex phenomenon, but it’s worth trying to understand why this is happening and what the ramifications are.

One factor is that the information economy — sometimes known as the economy of bullshit jobs or email jobs — de-conditioned millions of college-educated Americans to tangible toil, as technical or laboring jobs were shipped overseas or taken by cheap migrant labor at home. These shifts, determined by Wall Street, the cheap-labor lobby, and neoliberals in both major parties, were of immense public consequence; yet the public had little input into them. Between 2008 and 2023, the real economy shrank. Young people entering the labor market either managed to secure email jobs (IT, management, human resources, and the like) or fell into an abyss of service-sector precarity; many straddled both sectors, serving as adjunct philosophy teachers by day and as baristas by night. 

The Obama economy’s rebound after 2008 was partly driven by the lottery-like dynamics of NGO jobs and tech jobs — by private and public email jobs. Getting an email job at a startup that succeeded could mean being set for life, while the runners-up would remain economically insecure. These jobs were also ideologically aligned, meant for and granted to so-called coastal elites with the requisite progressive views. This was the economy of New York, LA, DC, and Seattle (the heartlands were buoyed by natural gas, but those jobs also came under attack from the green agenda).

The problem with the Obama-era version of the information economy was that the products minted by NGOs and tech companies and advertising firms didn’t help us do anything — didn’t improve our quality of life. NGOs too often took up niche causes (while laundering their donors’ money). Tech companies visibly eroded quality of life (addictive social feeds, for example, mean going to restaurants where people at the same table scarcely look at each other, let alone, you know, talk). Private equity and hedge funds asset-stripped the real economy, piling debt atop debt to buy up legacy firms, refusing to invest in them, and thus dramatically boosting the likelihood of bankruptcy.

Getting an email job in 2011 was like winning the lottery (especially when those jobs came at startups that vested equity in the company); but the “good” jobs that Millennials found or created in the early Obama era were largely fake in the sense that they what they “produced” was bad for everyone who didn’t work in tech, finance, or advertising. These jobs contributed to the erosion of community life, and detracted from the well-being of Americans at large, and so there was never growing prosperity, or — to borrow the buzzword du jour — collective “abundance.”

The Millennials who were doing well in the Obama economy were doing so at the expense of many  others who weren’t. The product manager who made Facebook more addictive enriched himself at a cost to its users. NGOs that pushed ideological propaganda into school districts or hospitals or the arts achieved narrow victories for themselves, but inflamed social tension, disempowered parties and other mass-membership organizations, and eroded the quality of discourse. 

This economy was value-negative, and its economic benefits, what there were of them, were not well-distributed geographically or across class lines. It was an economy of gross inequality. It now appears to be giving way to something else. Between 2009 and 2019, the top 1% of US households captured roughly two-thirds of all wealth gains; median household wealth, by contrast, barely returned to pre-recession levels. During the same period, private-equity assets under management mushroomed to more than $5 trillion, up from about $1 trillion, and tech giants became Leviathans.

As the email economy falters, and as email jobs are either cut in Washington by a populist Trump administration or replaced by AI, elite laptop-class and credentialed coastal professionals are still habituated to expecting a lot for not a lot of work. That’s where the gambling mindset comes in. Stated bluntly, whether you got into the email job economy and are now feeling precarious, or whether you, like myself, never made it in, you have incentive to gamble.

Yet we have neither the skill nor the taste for the daily, dependable, reliable labor of our grandfathers and grandmothers. The insignia of the information economy — bloated degrees, bloated grades, bloated accomplishments, ideological hypothyroidism — are increasingly useless, and probably should be useless.

The casino economy stands at the threshold of the information economy and whatever comes next. What’s less clear is whether it’s transitional or semi-permanent. It may define the whole next era. Americans have some agency yet in this historical unfolding.

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Beware San Fran’s rationalist cult

By Matthew Gasda

While the long-term success of the Trump administration’s economic agenda is far from guaranteed, there’s a refreshing long-termism in the integrated platform of tariffs, corporate reinvestment, and public stakes in private companies — especially companies related to national security, chips, heavy metals, aerospace, and defense. Reduced dependence on migrant labor, which suppresses wages on the lower rungs, would also have long-term benefits. The Trump administration would like to get America back to making things, and for those things to be made by Americans. (On the other hand, Trump’s embrace of crypto and rampant speculation provides reason to be skeptical. There’s a worrisome, even loathsome, enthusiasm for vapor over material abundance.)

And the revitalization agenda is somewhat bipartisan. The most salutary aspect of both parties’ economic ideals is connected to re-embracing the real, rather than the informational, fake product and fake productivity. The general popularity of economic visions predicated on material, street-level reality is encouraging (in contrast to the 2010’s emphasis on ideological and digital “progress”).

At the same time, both parties and politicians across the spectrum are speculators themselves, trading inside information for massive stock gains. (Members of Congress consistently outperform the market by 6% to 12% annually). The casino economy has also been casino politics for a long time.

As for me, I buy dividend stocks, having gotten burned by day trading in 2021. Occasionally I’m tempted into losing money on a football or basketball game. I really enjoy my weekly poker games and the friends I’ve made playing poker. But what I’d like is to not be quite as excited as I am when I can buy groceries with my poker winnings, and for my friends to not be worried about the price of Etherium as it drops in real time during our game. I’d like gambling to be fun (again).

Consider the electric taxi. In 1897, a fleet of battery-powered “Hummingbirds” — named for their distinctive hum and yellow-and-black design — roamed the streets of London. These horseless carriages had swappable batteries, which could be replaced in minutes via hydraulic lifts at central stations. Their inventor, Walter Bersey, sounded a little like Elon Musk when he declared: “There is no apparent limit to the hopes and expectations of the electric artisan.” Yet within two years, the Hummingbirds were scrapped due to their high costs, frequent breakdowns and accidents, and the fact that they were slower than horse-drawn alternatives. Electric cabs didn’t return to London until 2019 — after a 122-year-long pause.

Many other vaunted technologies have met similar fates. Consider DNA cloning. In 1996, the birth of Dolly the sheep proved cloning possible, and subsequent experiments edged toward human replication. Yet, in 2005, after illnesses within cloned animals had been exposed, and fears were raised around the unethical use of human embryos, the United Nations adopted a declaration against all forms of human cloning. While non-binding, 84 member states voted in favor of prohibiting reproductive cloning, embryo research for non-therapeutic purposes, and the exploitative trade of human reproductive materials.

Eugenics, too, promised to shape the future. From the 1880s to the Second World War, eugenics societies flourished across industrialized nations, championed by elite progressives including the English writer H.G. Wells and the Irish playwright George Bernard Shaw. Wells envisioned a world where “fine and efficient” humans thrived while “base and servile types” were eradicated via “mercy killings”. The Nazi atrocities of the Second World War eventually discredited this pseudoscience, putting a stop to it.

Other banished technologies include dangerous drugs such as thalidomide, marketed as a “wonder drug” for morning sickness until it caused severe birth defects. Asbestos, once a “magic mineral”, was banned after links to lung cancer emerged. Leaded gasoline, despite boosting engine performance, was phased out globally by 2021 due to neurotoxicity. Even GM crops, touted as farming’s future a decade ago, now face restrictions over biodiversity and health and safety concerns. Currently 26 countries, including France, Germany, Russia, China, and India have partially or fully banned genetically modified organisms, while another 60 countries have placed significant restrictions on them.

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AI’s 1930s moment

By Tom Chivers

Faster-than-sound passenger travel also faltered. The Concorde, a marvel of Sixties engineering, halved flight times from Europe to the USA, but was retired in 2003 after a fatal crash. Similarly, Apollo-era dreams of lunar bases dissolved when funding dried up; today, even the National Space Foundation admits that NASA no longer has the specific technologies, tooling and manufacturing capabilities that created the Sixties Apollo program, making the reconstruction of such powerful technologies as the Apollo Saturn V’s F-1 rockets impossible.

Although we are encouraged to think of technology as developing in a smooth, upwards curve over time, the reality is that the graph of tech adoption shows many collapses and failed promises, as technologies have proved to be either too expensive or too dangerous to continue producing.

When it comes to AI, companies have embraced the accelerationist myth of unstoppable, exponential growth that can’t possibly be contained. The story goes like this: large language models (LLMs) will lead to human-level artificial general intelligence (AGI), creating a direct pathway through exponential self-learning to “the singularity” and AI superintelligence — the all-powerful digital deity. This epic story has inspired hundreds of billions in investment since the early 2000s.

But as recent tests and studies of LLMs have shown, this technology is not the pathway to AGI that we were promised. The hopes that “scaling”, “emergent properties” and “reasoning” would lead to AGI have all failed. The path to AGI lies elsewhere, if anywhere. As Yann LeCun, chief AI scientist at Meta, has said: “There’s absolutely no way that autoregressive LLMs… will reach human intelligence. It’s just not going to happen.”

He has been joined by an increasing number of technologists and public figures including Gary Marcus, Sandeep Reddy, and Thomas Dietterich, as well as François Chollet, who claimed that “LLMs are a dead end to AGI”. Last year’s calls of “AGI is near” — a line championed by Anthropic’s Dario Amodei, Google’s Eric Schmidt, and Elon Musk — now echo as an embarrassing cliché, trotted out to lessening effect each time the goalposts for “near” are moved into the future. The recent excitement over Google’s Deep Mind winning a gold medal in the International Mathematical Olympiad (IMO), and Open AI claiming its model had done the same, changes nothing: these were specialised systems trained for this specific task. Their success does not imply broad reasoning ability, let alone stand as examples of “general intelligence”.

Large language model technology has also failed to generate a return on investment for many companies. While Open AI CEO Sam Altman may boast of 20 million paying subscribers of ChatGPT, their contributions are minuscule compared to the vast amount of venture capital that has been sunk into AI companies: an estimated $600 billion. A recent study from Boston Consulting Group shows that 75% of companies which have invested in AI haven’t seen any return yet. Like other technologies that fail in the open marketplace, AI companies are now turning to the military for financing.

So much for AI’s unstoppable march forward. If we dig into the history of AI development, we also find that the technology has not been on an unbroken exponential growth curve over time. Since the Seventies, there have in fact been two “AI winters”: periods during which AI research funding and research froze.

The first winter lasted roughly from 1974 to 1980, when overhyped expectations about narrow AI led to profound disillusionment when promised breakthroughs didn’t materialize. The US Defense Advanced Research Projects Agency (DARPA) pulled its funding for five years, after discovering that “many researchers were caught up in a web of increasing exaggeration” while “what they delivered stopped considerably short”. Meanwhile, in Britain, the Lighthill Report claimed that the government-funded experiments in AI and robotics “fail to reach their more grandiose aims” and called for a halt to all government subsidy. By 1974, investment in AI projects in the UK and US had dwindled.

The second AI winter lasted roughly from 1998 to 2005, after early neural networks, “expert systems” and machine learning models underperformed as a result of insufficient data and computing power. Once again there was a failure to deliver on the big promises. Once again DARPA, the US government and private investors pulled their funding in a rush of capital flight. In all, 300 AI companies shut down.

Oddly enough, you don’t hear much about the two devastating AI winters from tech companies these days. This is probably because the tech companies are fearful that any whisperings about the true history of AI failure could burst the large language model bubble and usher in the third AI winter. But all the same elements are visible today: grandiose claims, hype and market frenzy followed by a failure to deliver.

Suggested reading

Why I’m boycotting AI

By Sam Kahn

In 1970, AI pioneer Marvin Minsky told Life Magazine: “In three to eight years we will have a machine with the general intelligence of an average human being.” Fifty-five years later, his promise has yet to come true — though the likes of Altman and Musk are hawking the same dream. Who is to say this third attempt at AI isn’t another dead end?

This leads us to Silicon Valley’s fatal flaw. It fuses “fake it till you make it” tech optimism with the Californian belief in manifestation: the idea that enough belief and investment can will anything into existence. This characteristic reveals a naïve faith in historical fatedness, as if progress were preordained and capital could rewrite reality.

Now that the “LLMs are the pathway to AGI” narrative is collapsing, the only factors stopping the AI bubble from bursting are the Silicon Valley mechanisms of hype and denial, the sunk-cost fallacy of investors, and the fact that chatbots and generative AI have become widely diffused across the Internet. Today, there may be 115 million daily users of AI.

Far from accelerating us into a perfect future, this flawed technology is instead slowing us down. We are inundated with the sludge and slop of AI generated material — failings which seem incurable within LLMs. Google and Bing now force AI-generated answers to the top of search results, with hallucination rates that only increase as AI gets more powerful; social media is flooded with AI sludge and bot-farm boosted ads; app stores and websites are swamped with fake reviews, while image banks are choked with generative AI slop. AI is even contaminating the news. As a result, early-adopter companies and employees are now turning against AI, realizing it is bad for productivity and that using it to replace human labor has been counterproductive. A study from MIT also claims that LLM use may be eroding cognitive skills.

It’s clear the AI genie isn’t going to become the digital God we were promised, but can we put it back into the bottle? The clean-up will be enormous, given AI is now lurking within millions of locations, but it has already begun, with companies that replaced humans with AI now re-hiring humans again. Companies are also employing “slop cleaners”’ to tidy up the mess AI has made.

Yet given that governments have naïvely bought into the AI ethos, the clean-up is going to fall to us citizens. We may not have political power, but we have history on our side. Against the myth of fated progress, history shows even the most hyped technologies can be stopped when they fail humanity and society demands they be contained, corked and put back on the shelf. If this were not true, then we would all currently be inhabiting the Metaverse while wearing 3D headsets.