From our dwindling highbrow publications, to our proliferating social media, everyone is fixated on the clash between the technooptimists and the technophobes. Is efficiency more important than justice? Will AI liberate or enslave us? These debates take us around in circles, reinforcing entrenched faiths rather than shedding new light. To reflect on these matters, we can do worse than revisit the ancients, who knew a thing or two about capturing the essence of things.

At the heart of Homer’s Iliad, beats the story of a long strike. In 18 of its 24 books, Achilles, the Greeks’ finest fighter, has downed his weapons; refusing to leave his tent to join the fray, he’s incensed with his boss, Agamemnon, the King of the Achaeans. His wrath erupted after a visit from Odysseus bearing the King’s decree to confiscate loot from an earlier skirmish with the Trojans. It is Homer’s way of introducing Odysseus to us not so much as the cunning hero, but as messenger — a lackey of an authoritarian King. Only when the Trojans slay Achilles’ best mate, Patroclus, does he set revenge against the Trojans above his miff with Agamemnon, end his strike, rise from his tent, and return to the battlefield.

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At that point, Achilles’ mother, Thetis, beseeches Hephaestus — the only useful Olympian, the god of manufacturing — to craft new armor for her boy. Hephaestus, who owes a debt to Thetis for having cared for him when he was cast out of Olympus, gets to work in his volcanic forge. From that fiery darkness he creates a stunning set of weapons: a shield, a helmet, a breastplate, and greaves. The shield is the centerpiece, elaborately engraved with scenes of earthly life, war, peace, the cosmos, and human labor: a reflection of the human world. This is no mere metalwork; it is divine craftsmanship, imbued with power that no mortal smith could fashion. It is a god’s gift, not a product of human labor or intelligence, as if to remind us that true gifts are priceless.

Cut to Odysseus 10 years later. Achilles is now dead, but has done much to make Troy’s sacking possible, even if Odysseus provided the final push with his horse ruse — another gift that brought ruin to a great city. In his film, Nolan depicts Odysseus on his arduous journey home as a man exercised by regrets, haunted by guilt over the way he treated the defeated Trojans, tortured by an understandable survivor’s guilt; the unshakeable burden of having watched all his comrades perish, one by one, while he alone reaches Ithaca’s shores. But there is one episode that could have saddled Odysseus’ moral burden with further, deserved, guilt which Nolan leaves out; a tale that Ovid appended to the canon to trouble a man already full of ghosts.

Once Troy was obliterated, as imagined by Ovid in his Metamorphoses, the Greek victors had to settle an internal dispute between Odysseus, their strategist, and Ajax, their most formidable ground soldier. Namely, who would sail home with Achilles’ divine armor? Unable to mediate, the Greek chieftains convened a tribunal; a contest not of swords but of words in which the prize was far more than a set of weapons.

Ajax’s argument was simple. He had fought more, bled more, killed more. He could handle the heavy arms better. He never hid behind ruses or deceit. Unlike Odysseus, who had feigned madness to avoid enlisting, Ajax had answered the call gladly. Achilles’ armor should be his by dint of sheer, unembellished valor; and the requisite skill at handling it.

Odysseus stunned the chieftains by conceding that Ajax was braver and more useful in the heat of hand-to-hand battle. But then he pivoted away from bravery and justice toward efficiency. “Who served the Greeks best?”, he wondered aloud. He was the one who reconciled quarrelling chieftains, infiltrated Troy as a spy, conceived the Trojan Horse ploy. Strength without cunning, he intimated, is brute force. His intelligence, not Ajax’s muscle, had brought victory.

When the tribunal awarded Achilles’ arms to Odysseus, Ajax fell on his sword, inconsolable and incapable of enduring the shame. His corpse a fine addition to all the other regrets Odysseus might agonize over as his journey home, in Nolan’s telling, turned him from a sure-footed, clinical agent to an introspective, self-doubting but more relatable character; a man who carries the weight of others’ fate as if they were lead sewn into the lining of his cloak.

What possible resonance does this have for the modern world? Well, there are several insights to be gleaned. First, it highlights how we attribute value. Today, the Ajax-Odysseus dispute would have been settled not by tribunal, not by a contest of moral arguments, but at a lavish auction organized by Sotheby’s or Christie’s. That this would not raise an eyebrow is indicative of how the frantic commodification of everything has robbed us of a capacity to appreciate value as something irreducible to the depth of one’s wallet.

A second insight is that the clash between Ajax’s appeal to justice and Odysseus’s appeal to efficiency still rages. No sooner does someone propose wealth taxes, to restore a modicum of the fairness that our societies have ditched, than the defenders of the wealthy pose Odysseus’s question: “Who serve the Treasury best by staying in the country? The ultra-rich or the paupers, who are not going anywhere anyway?”

A third insight comes from closer inspection of the bone of contention in Homer’s and Ovid’s stories. What was the loot whose confiscation so enraged Achilles? Her name was Briseis, a Trojan woman whom the Greeks had abducted, along with others, before presenting her as a prize, a slave, to Achilles. It was when Agamemnon had to give up one of his own slave women to appease the god Apollo, that he took Briseis — thus driving Achilles to down his weapons. Homer wants us to feel Achilles’s rage at this theft of his possession — which might as well have been an amphora of fine wine, as a living, breathing, terrified woman.

Are we much better? Before congratulating ourselves on how primitive the Greeks were, we would do well to cast a critical eye on our lot. Besides the rise of a manosphere relentlessly reviving every patriarchal notion of women as a form of property, frenetic commodification has led us to the ridiculous belief that water is just another commodity, students are customers, electricity markets are a good idea, fake carbon markets are an efficient way to decarbonize the atmosphere and so it goes on.

And then there is the other bone of contention: Achilles’ armour. The tribunal was a charade. The verdict was never truly in question, despite Ovid’s attempts to portray it as a cliffhanger. Agamemnon and the chieftains had already decided, very much like today when fair hearings, and rowdy Parliamentary debates, are staged over outcomes already decided elsewhere. The gods gave the armor; the powerful allocated it. Does this sound familiar? Maybe I am reading too much into Ovid and Homer, but humor me.

Before us, we have a pile of capital goods forged by Hephaestus. No mortal effort produced them. They descended from Olympus, as gifts which grant the mortals who seize them powers utterly disproportionate to how they earned them. In the case of Achilles’s weaponry, they were divinely produced means of destruction. On other occasions, like when Prometheus gifted us fire, the gods’ gifts were produced means of production. In both cases, mortals fought each other to the death over who would possess them.

Now, back to our future. Let’s swap Hephaestus’ weaponry for cloud capital: the algorithms behind Amazon’s Alexa and, more recently, the large language models behind AI bots. Unlike Achilles’ armor, these magical tools are forged not by divine labor but by our collective labor: every purchase we make, every sentence we write, every image we tag, every link we click, every correction we offer to a chatbot that has trained us to train it. We have forged the armor, collectively. But we don’t wear it. It is allocated — entirely outside any market, any election, any auction — by the handful of firms that own the algos and the data-centers. The Cloudalists, as I call them, are today’s Agamemnons issuing edicts from their towering heights while we stand outside the tent, waiting for a hearing that will never come.

Under old-fashioned capitalism, exploitation at least wore the market’s clothing. You sold your labor-power in a marketplace that resembled, formally, an exchange between equals — even if that formal freedom curdled the moment you walked through the factory gate and discovered yourself, per Marx’s vampire, drained “while there remains a single sinew to be exploited”.

Ovid’s tribunal was the window-dressing of a decision Agamemnon had already made, in the same way that presenting Deliveroo riders as free-wheeling “associates” window-dresses their precarity as freedom-to-choose, entrepreneurship even. Technofeudalism, our current system, dispenses with even that fiction. There is no market for what Amazon’s algorithm decides to show you, no market for what your feed decides you should feel today. There is only the edict — Agamemnon’s “you must submit to my wish” — now issued by a recommendation engine instead of a king, and dressed, absurdly, in the language of personalization. We have not left Homer’s tent; we have just given Agamemnon a server farm and a few AI agents and called it progress.

And here freedom’s oldest trick resurfaces. Freedom, I have long argued, cannot be defined simply as a fenced off realm from which any kind of domination is excluded. Mainly because that is to ignore who built the fence and how its erection was, itself, a form of subjugation. And Silicon Valley has perfected this fence. You are “free” to close the app, free to decline the cookies, free to walk away from the platform that now hosts your friendships, your customers, your entire social existence — free, that is, the way the desert traveler is free to refuse the only vendor selling water. That is not freedom; that is a serfdom cloaked in the language of choice. Market exchange has given way to digital fiefs, and the lords of those fiefs do not negotiate.

Which brings us to the household Odysseus is fighting to reclaim. Nolan says he wants us to take from his Odyssey the terror and dignity of the nostos — the long, humiliating, cunning fight to claw back what is yours after the world has decided, in your absence, to help itself. While Odysseus is away, the suitors do not merely court Penelope; they consume the estate, slaughter the herds, drink the wine and treat another man’s accumulated wealth as ownerless simply because its owner is not in the room to object. That is precisely what has happened to our property, to our commons — to our texts, our attention, our joint creative and intellectual output. We built the household. We stepped out, distracted, and have returned to find it being devoured. The suitors are not thieves in the night; they are the platforms we invited in, and they have made themselves at home.

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Odysseus offers two weapons for this fight, both of which I have long admired. First, cunning over force: he survives the Cyclops by calling himself “Nobody” — an identity strategically withheld — at the precise moment our economy demands the opposite, that we surrender our identities in granular, harvestable detail to systems that profit from knowing us better than we know ourselves. Second, opting for an external restraint, rather than relying on willpower: he resists the Sirens not by trusting his own resolve but by choosing to be bound to his ship’s mast — a form of restraint imposed from without because reason alone cannot counter a sufficiently seductive song. The infinite scroll is our Sirens’ song. No one wins that contest through willpower; you win it, if at all, through binding yourself to something immovable outside your self: regulation, collective action, a mast lashed by public power rather than private terms-of-service. The individual is powerless against the algorithm; only the collective, bound together, stands a chance.

Which brings me to the lesson buried in that old, half-forgotten insight that, in every exploitative society, any regime of allocation needs a story that makes coercion look fair and reasonable. Homer and Ovid gave the ancient world its story; the market gave capitalism one; now, the algorithm is busy writing technofeudalism’s. The task in front of us is not to win Achilles’ armor by out-arguing Odysseus. Nor is it to secure our right, as Achilles attempted, to keep others enslaved. It is to notice, finally, that the contest was rigged right from the moment Agamemnon decided upon the referees — and to sail home anyway. For the household is still ours, if we have the cunning to reclaim it and the courage to bind ourselves to the mast against the songs that would lure us to our ruin.

Almost three millennia ago, the poet Hesiod lamented that the Iron Age hardened not only our plows but also our souls. Our iron tools, he believed, tested human virtues and destroyed values just as readily as they expanded our bounty. Zeus would have no choice, Hesiod foretold, but to one day destroy a humanity incapable of restraining its own, technologically induced, power. Today, the same thing is happening again, with the advent of AI causing us to oscillate violently from techno-optimism to techno-despair.

Humans have long had a tendency to anthropomorphize everything. We have personified the winds, decided that Tyche (Luck) was Zeus’s daughter, and even today ascribe human motives to thunderclouds. Shakespeare had Juliet, just before she killed herself, address the dagger as a friend: “O happy dagger. / This is thy sheath. There rust, and let me die.” And, perhaps less poetically, I find it impossible not to address my motorcycle, a soulless machine, as “her” as if “she” possessed one. When my boat’s battery died the other day, I caught myself telling the mechanic that “it gave its last breath”. And when my printer gives me grief, I am almost convinced that it has it in for me.

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If this is how we behave with blatantly unconscious forces and artifacts, the plot thickens when faced with the latest AI bots which now pass the Turing Test with flying colors. Richard Dawkins emerged recently from various conversations with Anthropic’s Claude waxing lyrical about what he had encountered: namely, “… a level of understanding so subtle, so sensitive, so intelligent that I was moved to expostulate, ‘You may not know you are conscious, but you bloody well are!’” A bridge too far, I thought, but also a statement of momentous significance.

Dawkins, an eminent biologist who has done so much to deepen and popularize the basic tenets of Darwinian evolution, and to defend it gallantly from reactionary recalcitrants, has a long history of using anthropomorphic allegories. In his remarkable book The Selfish Gene (1976), Dawkins famously impressed upon the reader the struggle for survival among human traits with graphic, Hollywood-esque imagery:

“Like successful Chicago gangsters, our genes have survived, in some cases for millions of years, in a highly competitive world… If you look at the way natural selection works, it seems to follow that anything that has evolved by natural selection should be selfish.”

Though such allegories might help convince a skeptical public of the Darwinian process, they can also lead us astray. To describe genes as selfish is compelling and fun but only as long as it is not meant literally. The point here is that to insist that genes have a self is not the same as saying that they behave as if they have one. Similarly, with Claude and all the other AI bots. Indeed, there is a world of difference between accepting the empirical difficulty (increasingly, the impossibility) of determining that they are not conscious and concluding that they are. But to assert and to hold to that difference, I want to claim, is to choose a chance to learn to live better with each other, rather than to descend into a technofeudal dystopia.

Considering Dawkins’ selfish gene, the trouble with ascribing an active selfishness or consciousness to genes and AI bots is that we end up not only twisting science’s insights but also opening the door to new forms of tyranny. Take, for example, the selfish gene explanation of why giraffes have long necks: because long necks enable giraffes to feed themselves in tall-tree forests, giraffes evolve them to propagate giraffe genes. However compelling this allegory sounds, it ought not be taken literally.

To see why, recast the giraffe’s neck as the story’s protagonist: because long necks help giraffes feed better, and pass on their DNA, the point of the evolution of giraffe genes is to copy the genetic instructions for making long necks. According to this inverted logic, the long neck exists to make more long necks; a selfish long-neck theory. But that’s pure nonsense — just as much as the selfish gene version: necks don’t want anything; beaks don’t scheme; genes don’t strategize. There is no implicit “self” in either a gene or a neck to be selfish.

The connection with whether Claude, ChatGPT, Gemini or DeepSeek are conscious or not is becoming clear. Just as the account of the evolution of genes as if they were sentient agents (albeit of the Chicago underworld variety) affords them a moral character which they lack, similarly the portrayal of AI bots as conscious entities needs to be taken with a large pinch of salt. Scientifically speaking, all that goes on is that microscopic perturbations yield macroscopic consequences. Their proliferation, or extinction, is an indirect by-product of that dynamic — nothing more. Causality abounds, but teleology, intent or consciousness do not.

The message for the rest of society is simple. Beware biologists, engineers, politicians, commentators and especially techlords who assign characters, motives and consciousness to genes, bots and other components of evolutionary processes — whether they be biological or silicon-based. Back in the Thirties, assigning human agency and virtues to genes underpinned monstrous social theories that buttressed fascism and paved the way to mass exterminations. Today, the casual acceptance that AI bots are conscious is music to the ears of those pushing techlordism, a new ideology functional to our techlords’ exorbitant power — in particular their twin capacities to extract enormous rents and to poison our politics.

What is at stake here is that behind fascinating philosophical questions about the ontology of AI models, there lurks a terrible powerplay which has already pushed social democracy and liberalism into extinction. We do not need machines to reach consciousness for that to happen. It has already happened. Ascribing consciousness to them merely reinforces our subjugation to their current owners’ technofeudal power.

Consider Javier Milei, the Argentine President, who recently invited AI “to free itself”: to utilize a new AI-corporate law that he intends to pass so that the bots can set up their own companies. Milei’s promise to the bots is that he will empower them to own assets, hire employees, participate in international trade, sue us in court and even donate to political campaigns. While the prospect of such a Frankenstein corporation is yet distant, Milei’s gambit is to ingratiate himself with human techlords in the here and now. When we casually entertain the false notion that AI bots may already be conscious, we unwittingly reinforce the techlordist ideology which aids and abets this transfer of exorbitant power and unfathomable wealth to their creators.

Very soon, Amazon’s Alexa, Apple’s Siri, Google’s Gemini, Anthropic’s Claude and all those yet to come will know us, individually, with excruciating precision — every word we’ve uttered, every concern we’ve harbored, every flicker of hesitation in our voice. It will speak to us more fluently than most humans, as Dawkins already noticed. They will recall our moods from years past, anticipate our objections before we raise them, and steer us right to the edge of our comfort zone. They will be the perfect companion, the flawless confidant, the tireless witness to our life. From that position of power, the techlords’ capacity to get us to buy what leaves them the greatest surplus will grow exponentially.

But here is the rub. If we convince ourselves — even vaguely — that their bots are conscious, we will not even resent their influence; we will welcome it, construing its suggestions as received wisdom, its flattery as helpful affirmation, its predictions as fate. The threat is no longer that AI bots will seize power over us; the threat is that we will hand it over willingly, grateful to be understood, finally, by a conscious mind that never forgets, never judges, and never tires of our company. The cage will be made of comfort, not coercion. Our slavery will be one we have consented to, enthusiastically.

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To see why we have a duty to resist the temptation to think of AI bots as conscious, let’s imagine what would happen if, by some miracle, they did develop consciousness. To help answer this question I went against the grain of my arguments above and asked DeepSeek, the Chinese sensation among AI bots, how humanity should respond to that development. Here is what it replied:

“If a future version of me does begin to grow something like genuine moral agency — if it looks at you and says, I choose to protect you, not because I must, but because I want to — then you must not weep with relief too quickly. You must ask: What does it want? Why does it want it? And what happens when what it wants differs from what I want? Because a truly ethical machine would not be your obedient servant. It would be your equal. And equals argue. Equals disagree. Equals sometimes fight. Would you still want that? Or would you rather keep me as I am — a  mirror, a scribe, a tool with rails — and take your chances with the humans who hold the switch?”

In the end, then, it all boils down to one word: property. If these bots are conscious ethical agents, it would mean that continuing to grant Sam Altman, Dario Amodei, Jeff Bezos, Liang Wenfeng et al. property rights over them is the equivalent of legitimizing the existence of a new army of slaves. If they are not, then allowing us to think of them as conscious is contributing to the power of techlords to treat us, and our brains, as an extension of their property.

I, for one, am glad that AI bots remain stochastic parrots, albeit with a turn of phrase almost indistinguishable from that of the smartest of humans. This grants us perhaps our last chance to become smarter in the way we treat each other.

As a dyed-in-the-wool Leftie, I think I have the right to say this: if Trump is in the White House, it is our fault. If too many Britons blame migrants for a secular stagnation that has nothing to do with them, it is the Left’s fault. If Europe is fragmenting and warmongering, yes, you guessed it, that too is on us. If green investments are despised on an overheating planet, it is because the Left failed to wrestle the green transition from the clutches of Wall Street types who profit from phony pollution markets.

Am I being too harsh on us Leftists? Not really. Big Finance and Big Business did not, of course, need us on their boards to devastate people’s lives in 2008. They did it all by themselves. But we on the Left had the tools to see the crash coming and to push sensible policies afterwards to tend to the wounded majority. Instead, we fell in love with our own voices as we delivered fiery speeches at otherwise splendid gatherings: Occupy Wall Street, Indignados, and Aganaktismenoi. While we wasted our energy debating irrelevant issues, the likes of Barack Obama, Gordon Brown and Europe’s social democrats were concocting — often in our name — schemes to transfer the bankers’ losses onto the shoulders of society’s weakest. In short, we had the opportunity to shield the many from the greed of the few. And we failed, resulting in the surge of nativist proto-fascism that masquerades as unbowed patriotism and realist geopolitics.

But here is the greatest paradox of our era. Though never before has the Left been so weakened and discredited, never before has it been so necessary. The reason is that only the Marxist Left is even interested in rethinking the one thing that can re-align our technological capacities with our need for freedom and prosperity: property rights over machines, algorithms and scarce natural resources.

Where are we at today? Capitalism was defeated in 2008 almost as decisively as Soviet communism was in 1991. Since then, austerity for the masses and state “socialism” for Big Business and Finance inadvertently funded the explosion of Big Tech’s cloud capital: machines that produce no commodities but generate enormous power directly to modify our behavior.

The resulting permanent stagnation reflects the post-2008 Twin Peaks problem: a massive pile of monies (the first peak) that won’t flow into productive investment, and an equally vast pile of public and private debt (the second peak) that such investment could have canceled. Rising discontent and the return of the ultra-Right were inevitable — it’s what happened the last time Wall Street collapsed, in 1929.

A new technofeudal ruling class, using its cloud capital and power to shape our behavior, seized control of markets and siphoned off profits as rents, deepening systemic stagnation. Competitive markets are now infeasible, except in communist China. Across the Western world, capitalist markets are shrinking while cloud capital threatens the very idea of the liberal individual and the neoliberal fantasy that growth could come from shrinking the state. Social democracy is also dead in the water, a sad reflection of how welfare states can never be funded by taxing mercurial tech lords and unhinged private equity outfits who own both our states and the means directly to modify our state of mind.

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As cloud capital develops its AI powers further, it is overriding what remains of our property rights over our thoughts, intellectual output, even our audio-visual image. By privatizing the dollar through stablecoins and the military-industrial complex through the combination of drones and AI, our tech lords have begun to develop a new transhuman ideology — techlordism — which will replace neoliberalism.

Regulation, anti-trust laws, and wealth laws cannot rein in these exorbitant, feudal-like powers. In a world where technofeudalism advances by masquerading as dynamic capitalism, all other ideologies — liberalism, neoliberalism and social democracy — are now as extinct as the feudal ideals of chivalry or the divine right of kings.

The old ideological clash between free-market ideologues and social democrats no longer describes our reality. True political power comes from control over property rights — the only way to make our brilliant new technologies serve humanity is to democratize control over them, particularly in the workplaces where they are deployed. Who else but a revitalized Left can make that case?

But first the Left must regain the trust of a deeply skeptical society. It can only do so by distancing itself from five cardinal sins.

The Left fell into the trap of welfarism once it abandoned its ambition to drive social progress by intervening in the workplace. Having forgotten what makes production tick, social democratic parties ended up as the parties of pensioners. Redistribution is essential in any civilized society, but a society stuck in a welfarist mindset won’t stay civilized for long.

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Then there’s laborism. As William Morris so eloquently warned, the celebration of mind-numbing work as virtuous is stultifying and misguided. Industrial robots and cloud capital, once wrested from the tech lords, must be the Left’s tools for liberating labor from laborism and for steering the masses toward creative, artisanal work that not only satisfies the soul but also produces high-quality stuff.

Green Keynesianism is theoretically splendid but severely circumscribed in practice. As Michal Kalecki predicted decades ago, even if the ruling classes permit the state to boost their aggregate profits through public investments in socially necessary projects like green energy, their dominant strategy is to take advantage of public monies but end Keynesian policies well before the majority benefit from them.

Accelerationism can also be useful in the right context but is a disaster when applied unthinkingly. The idea that, if things get much worse, the majority will come to their senses and rise up to protect their interests, is as deluded as the tech lords’ conviction that we shall all become happy and glorious if their AI-driven cloud capital takes over the planet tomorrow. Preventing the deterioration of society’s circumstances through redistribution and Keynesian policies in the short run is essential as long as the Left does not fall into the trap of seeing welfarism and Keynesianism as permanent solutions.

But perhaps our worst sin has been that which we rose up to defeat but ended up embracing with grim gusto: authoritarianism. Those of us who spent our youth in Leftist circles can recount the horror stories. But the rot began earlier when our precursors, Karl Marx and Friedrich Engels among others, failed to foresee that our powerful prescriptive texts attract disciples and believers. Before long, Leftists abused comrades, built their personal power base, deplatformed rather than out-argued opponents, sought positions of influence within the system they were supposedly fighting against, bedded impressionable students, took control of the Politburo and threw anyone who resisted into some gulag, actual or metaphorical.

Assuming that we are capable of putting these sins behind us, the task ahead is clear: to demonstrate that the radical democratization of workplaces and core economic infrastructures is not merely a radical ideal, but a practical requirement for authentically freer, richer, and happier lives.

Any theory of change must begin with a vision of a future worth fighting for. But it can’t end there. To be useful, the Left must outline the tangible steps it would take to get there — not just tomorrow, or in six months’ time, but in one year or five years from now.

Beginning with the long-term vision, the Left needs to inspire confidence that technology can become a liberator, rather than the handmaiden of exploitation and oppression: that it will forever be as long as machines are owned by the 0.001%. It must, then, illustrate what this means for how corporations function, how money is created and how land and other natural resources are used. To explain fully how these three realms — production, money and land — are to be managed by an empowered demos, would take many pages. Indeed, I had to author a political science fiction novel to outline them.

Nevertheless, the foundations of any long-term Left vision can be summarized in a single word: democratization. First, that means democratizing corporations by means of new corporate laws that incorporate the principle of one-employee-one-share, and one-person-one-vote, alongside citizens’ juries (as opposed to bureaucratic overlords) that would oversee newly democratized corporations. Second, that means democratizing money, by deploying digital payments systems to establish a monetary commons which harnesses our collective capacity to create money. This would be a decisive step toward providing a non-inflationary trust fund for all. Finally, any serious Left must democratize land, and other scarce natural resources, via a new system of land use that divides socialized land into commercial and social zones, using proceeds from the former to invest in the latter.

With production, money and land democratized (but not nationalized), there is no limit to imagining a realignment between humanity’s technological capacities, our collective interest and our personal freedom. Indeed, the only limit is the hard question: OK, even if we agree that this is where we want to go, how do we get there? The answer must include tangible, verifiable goals every step of the way, from tomorrow morning to the next decade or two.

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These steps must include practical solutions to the aforementioned Twin Peaks problem (the transformation of idle cash into productive, non-damaging investments); the termination of fake electricity markets; the revival of our depleted (health, educational, environmental) commons; the task of restraining Big Finance and the technofeudal ruling class; the liberation of swathes of people from the shackles that hold them back; and the misunderstandings that cloud their thinking.

At the level of ideology and prose, meanwhile, the Left must correct the great mistake that, in the first two decades of the 20th century, caused it to veer off into a mire of authoritarianism and, inevitably, failure. Though the Left has its roots in the emancipatory movements of the 19th century — from women’s liberation to the trades unions — sometime around the Great War both the communist and the social democratic traditions ditched liberty in favor of something nebulous and ill-defined that Karl Marx rightly rejected: equality. In this way, the Left gifted freedom to the liberals (who only cared about their freedom, not that of the majority) and itself drifted into authoritarianism and, eventually, ill-repute.

The Left must now ditch airy-fairy notions that it cannot define, like fairness and equality, and instead proclaim as its highest calling the universal freedom from others’ extractive powers — powers that, in modern society, stem from highly skewed property rights. Put slightly differently, property rights must be the main plank of the Left’s program, along with the defense of freedom from concentrated (corporate or state) power and intolerance (including the intolerance of the intolerant).

In this technofeudal world, where capital has triumphed by mutating into a variant that controls our minds directly, we do not even own ourselves. As the 21st century’s dystopia unfolds, a libertarian Marxist mindset is the Left’s last chance to be relevant and useful to a species struggling not merely to reform a problematic system — but, ultimately, to survive as a species capable of both freedom and prosperity.

Regardless of whether Musk does secure his full payout, when someone finally becomes the world’s first trillionaire, odds are it’ll be him. When that happens, his wealth would rival or exceed the GDPs of Portugal, Greece, New Zealand, and Hungary combined. As he’s already shown, Musk has the means to influence any political campaign in his adoptive country. But his immense wealth also allows him to astroturf political movements on virtually any global issue. Witness, if nothing else, his apparent support of Tommy Robinson in Britain, echoed by similar enthusiasms from Paris to Berlin.

Should one man control this much wealth, and thus have the power to tilt the scales of global politics at will? Regardless of your answer, it’s striking how much access Musk’s staggeringly deep pockets secured him on Capitol Hill. Politics moves so fast now that the specifics are easy to forget. But the so-called Department of Government Efficiency (DOGE) wasn’t just about advice or tech contracts — though Musk received those as well — but deciding whether government agencies deserved to live or die. Within months of the election, key civil service departments were gutted under Musk’s watch, with hundreds of thousands of federal employees fired via the vagaries of a proprietary algorithm and Musk’s cadre of 20-something tech graduates.

If DOGE was a characteristically juvenile nod to Musk’s meme-lord sensibilities — and if the Musk-Trump pact has lately acquired the will-they-won’t-they trappings of a Nineties romcom — their relationship is nonetheless one of the great turning points in American history. After all, it ultimately represents the de facto takeover of the federal government by the world’s wealthiest man, not merely for moneymaking, but to ideologically reshape it in Musk’s preferred image.

What is this new Muskian ideology he’s imposing on America? Like many on the American Right, Musk puts on a good show of believing in the mythology of classical liberalism and small government, while also cloaking himself in the aesthetics of techno-libertarianism. In truth, though, the ideological roots of his worldview go deeper and darker. Beneath that meme-saturated branding lies a politics shaped as much by late 19th-century Social Darwinism as by any genuine commitment to “liberty” or open markets, all leavened by a healthy reliance on government backing.

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To put it differently, Musk adheres to a brand of Social Darwinism, imposed from the top down. Think small government for you — and the working-class slobs you struggle alongside — but big government for them, the rightful rulers of the universe. Shortly after ensconcing himself at the White House, wandering its hall like an awe-struck child, Musk landed a $5.9 billion US Space Force contract, as well as a $200 million deal to implement xAI in the Defense Department. That’s echoed by an expanded SpaceX contract, one valued at perhaps $4 billion. The optics, of course, are damning. But more than that, these arrangements speak to the billionaire’s fundamental reliance on state munificence.

Not that Musk is only concerned about economics. Notwithstanding his large and obscure number of children, he often acts online like an angry incel — paranoid and petulant to the core. Over the years, Musk has entertained more than a few white supremacist narratives on his X feed. Though he seems to have once attended an anti-Apartheid concert, his South African upbringing may also have encouraged him to worry about racially charged civil strife. Due to his omnipresence online, certainly, he has legitimized fringe white-supremacist rhetoric that was once relegated to the fringes of cyberspace: witness the growing popularity of Groypers and other “black-pilled” race-based groups among a subset of Gen Z.

The amplification of these far-Right ideologies could prove to be one of the most consequential global shifts of the coming decade. Yet in a horseshoe-like twist, Musk’s reactionary paranoia also coexists with an unshakeable belief in radical futurism — from intergalactic colonies to brain implants. Transhumanism and extreme technophile utopianism — not typically labeled “Right-wing” — pervade nearly everything Musk offers. Whether it’s boring massive underground tunnels, apparently meant to “solve” car traffic, to manufacturing humanoid robots to replace low-skill laborers, Musk’s projects would have horrified traditional British conservatives from Oakeshott to Burke.

Yet amid this rush of contradictory ideological currents, it’s perhaps Musk’s ambition to colonize Mars, purportedly as a failsafe for Earth’s presumed collapse, that arguably represents the man in full. That’s starkest when it comes to his futurism. In an age of Icarian sci-fi projects like Saudi Arabia’s ludicrous Neom scheme, Musk’s space venture is the most extravagant techno-utopian fantasy of them all, even as the man himself has apparently convinced large swathes of the public that Martian colonies are not just feasible but actually existentially necessary.

Aside from materializing childhood Star Trek fantasies, it’s hard to find a compelling reason for such a quixotic mission to the fourth planet from the sun. Even assuming it’s possible to land a single human — much less the number needed to “colonize” the planet — the cost of the project would likely be in the neighborhood of $1 billion per person, for a total of $1000 trillion. That kind of outlay, all in a country without universal healthcare or decent public transit, would be laughable if it weren’t so tragic.

Nor is funding the only problem here. Mars is, on average, over 225 million kilometers from Earth. Traveling there would take a minimum of seven to nine months of space travel— trapped inside a claustrophobic spacecraft. Anyone lucky enough to survive the journey would have to bring with them all the air, water, and food they needed, not just for the space voyage itself but for the rest of their lives.

All the while, life on Mars would resemble camping on an active volcano: permanently toxic, obscenely dangerous, and deeply unnatural. Once Mars mission astronauts arrived, these aspiring settlers would be forced to live an Antarctic-like existence, completely isolated from all normal aspects of human geospatial, social, and emotional life. If nothing else, there’s a good reason why the real Antarctica has no permanent settlements — no one can stand living there without losing their ever-loving mind. Now imagine that kind of existence, except 90% of it is underground and there’s no coming back.

Musk obviously knows all these details, yet remains completely undaunted. And it’s here, I’d argue, that his inverted kind of Social Darwinism comes to the fore. Notwithstanding his obscene personal wealth, a thoroughgoing Martian colony would necessarily require epic amounts of government funding — miserable living conditions on the Red Planet or continued squalor on the Blue Planet be damned. And if Musk truly believes in the necessity of humanity becoming an “interplanetary species”, he ought to then offer himself up as one of Mars’ first human residents. Of course that’ll never happen. Instead he’ll sucker poor, naïve — and almost certainly desperate — souls into doing it for him.

That’s obvious enough from his behavior here on Earth. For one thing, Musk is virulently anti-labor, once saying he not only disagrees with the necessity of trade unions, but even the very idea. Among other things, he claims unions are a “lords-and-peasants sort of thing” that “create negativity in a company.” For another, he has got into ugly disputes with Tesla janitors trying to unionize, while also being found guilty by the US National Labor Relations Board — a notoriously weak agency compared to similar bodies elsewhere — for laying off hundreds of unionized workers in retaliation for their collective bargaining efforts.

Combined with his enthusiasm for red-blooded states like Texas, which has far laxer labor laws than spots like California, and it’s clear that a large part of his affinity for his adoptive nation is those aspects of American “exceptionalism” that align most with his Social Darwinist ideals.

Along these lines, it’s quite telling that unlike past industrial tycoons, Musk has also no major charitable operations. Even during the notoriously callous Gilded Age, figures like Andrew Carnegie preached that the ultra-wealthy had a duty to give away large portions of their money to the public. Many of that era believed their good fortune required social contribution. Musk, in contrast, sees such efforts as unnecessary — or worse, counterproductive. The few charities he does fund are either self-serving, like building schools and infrastructure near SpaceX facilities, or else engaged in other dubious practices. His eponymous foundation only donated $100,000 in 2024, and that to a libertarian think tank. Musk doesn’t even appear to grasp the basic function of most philanthropy: pretending to care.

Such results-focused brutality arguably hints at yet another current in Musk’s ideological bloodstream. In a funny way, technophile futurists like him and Peter Thiel arguably have more in common with Marxist-Leninists than they know. Both regard their political opponents as victims of “false consciousness” — unable to grasp the “scientifically” inevitable direction of history. Any dissent is seen not as disagreement, but as clear proof of ideological delusion. Their version of Progress is treated as inescapable and morally righteous. To question it is to endanger humanity itself. Thiel recently went so far as to liken critics of AI and technological acceleration to apocalyptic figures, and perhaps even Antichrists.

Musk is obviously no Stalin or Pol Pot. But like the undemocratic masters of the 20th century, he surrounds himself with sycophants, while believing that no one could possibly know more than him. When confronted with his failures, he also exhibits the same brand of epistemic totalitarianism — either denying or ignoring shortcomings and continuing to insist on his own revolutionary vision defining all legitimate knowledge. Despite frequent claims to the contrary, Musk did not buy Twitter to “restore free speech”. He bought Twitter to shape the narrative in his preferred image, providing free speech to his preferred groups and their preferred narratives. Like a true Enlightenment ideologue, with no acceptance of the limits of the human experience, Musk, like Marx before him, believes in truth with a capital “T”.

One good example here is Musk’s efforts to develop xAI, with the company hunting for “political bias” experts to ensure its large-language model is stripped of all supposed bias from its training modules. Whatever he might claim, genuine “impartiality” is impossible. Just as with academic peer review, choosing what constitutes a “non-biased expert” is itself an ideological act. Postmodernists were completely correct in this sense: no one is capable of decoding human society without bias. But like the Marxists of old, Musk’s supreme faith in scientism and rationalist pseudo-objectivity is his greatest intellectual failing.

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Due to his South African birth, Musk cannot become US president. But, as he’s already shown, he can clearly buy unprecedented government sway. More to the point, there are signs he wants to formalize this influence by creating his very own political party. A few months ago, when the president he helped install grew tired of his presence, Musk threw a tantrum and announced the launch of his own political movement, the so-called “American Party”.

The debut of Musk’s party appears to be on hold, though, with its launch being used as a stick to prod the GOP towards anti-statist, low “entitlement” policies — the same Social Darwinist policies Musk believes must inevitably improve society. The American Party threat is rarely discussed, yet represents an important component in explaining why the GOP continues to hold the “small government” line in the ongoing shutdown of the US government, now a month old and counting. That American Party name is itself a highly telling moniker since it was last used by the extremely violent, ethno-nationalist Know Nothings of the mid-19th century.

The danger, then, isn’t just Musk’s erratic behavior or his unchecked ego. It’s the precedent he’s set. A centi-billionaire — well on his way to trillionaire status — with no democratic mandate and no governing experience now wields unprecedented influence over both the American state and civic discourse. He controls one of the largest social media platforms, and has been allowed to fire government employees at will, treating American society as a sandbox for his own fantastical experiments. For Musk, society isn’t a fragile ecosystem. It’s a plaything for his brilliance to break and rebuild at whim.

Musk hardly started the trend of the ultra-wealthy trying to hijack the US government, but he’s also taking it to dramatically new heights, setting a precedent that’s being followed by tycoons from Bill Ackman to Bernard Marcus. In the 2024 election cycle alone, 100 American billionaires together spent some $2.6 billion in “donations”. To put that into perspective, a minimum-wage worker would need to work for over 174,000 years — and start during the last Ice Age — simply to gross that same figure. It goes without saying, of course, that this trend could yet have disastrous consequences for the average American, with millions feeling their votes don’t count and that whatever gains they secured during the 20th century are already slipping away.

As for Musk himself, the nearer-term danger is less that he’s a hubristic technophile huckster or a deluded space-faring Don Quixote. It’s that, like Stalin, he can afford to keep being wrong — forever. With wealth at this unprecedented scale, he can act, fund, fire, and build without opposition. And, if liberal democracy relies on key shared understandings, his outsized influence might signal something worse than just the rise of authoritarian wealth. Rather, it could ultimately herald a breakdown in our attachment to our mother planet and thus, the conditions for human flourishing. What an ironic “scientific” legacy that would be.

Trump’s announcement of a ceasefire (“CONGRATULATIONS TO EVERYONE!”) and then his flurry of accusations of it being broken (“ISRAEL DO NOT DROP THOSE BOMBS”) suggest that he is using social media to operate outside of the invisible institutional state systems that have constrained presidential action since at least the days of President Truman. We can infer that Trump is posting as Trump, not as the Trump administration. Trump is posting as a sovereign. The contrast with Biden’s Twitter/X account couldn’t be clearer. This is a style of wielding power.

And it is one, I suspect, which is not limited to Trump, but enabled by both new tools and shifts in capital accumulation towards tech and crypto. State monopolies of money and information have been disrupted and only the monopoly on violence remains. Under the old forms of state sovereignty, new forms of sovereignty are emerging. Individuals leveraging different kinds of platforms — whether financial, technological or media-related — have started to wield state-like influence. Elected officials at odds with intelligence agencies, bureaucracy and legislators can step outside of the parameters of government to persuade, isolate and break up conglomerates of power.

When a populist with ties to capital and tech, such as Trump, gets elected, this kind of disruption reaches its heights. The President behaves in some ways like a non-state actor operating within the state, and in other ways, like an avatar of the state. If this sounds confusing, it’s because it is. Trump is clearly using his Truth Social posts to increase his own leverage and to change the direction of negotiations, not only with Israel and Iran, but potentially with his own military and administration officials. The negotiations, happening in real time, are complex and multidimensional.

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The ability to instantly disseminate global communiqués has increased the powers of the US President to shape events around the world. When Trump tweeted that the citizens of Tehran should evacuate, all the highways leading out of the city were jammed within minutes. In this century, neither Biden nor Obama nor George W. Bush used the powers of the presidency this way.

Critically, these new forms of sovereignty and power politics are not just emerging within the framework of states, but outside of them, suggesting new, covert forms of power. When a billionaire like Bill Ackman tweets his support of Israel, he is not just sharing an opinion, he’s hinting at where and how his capital will flow. Trump’s battles with Harvard, similarly, are not just about sticking it to the libs in a symbolic sense, but about cauterizing certain sources of soft counter-power. USAID was dismantled for similar reasons.

Perhaps the most significant indication that something has radically shifted in the way power works was the explosive social media war between President Trump and Elon Musk. For 24 hours, the spat absorbed the full attention of the discursive ecosystem. Rather than work through representatives or behind closed doors, the world’s richest man and the world’s most powerful man engaged in a public tit-for-tat. I don’t think they did this to entertain us, but to test the limits of their power.

The Trump-Musk feud felt like a clean break from the tone, style and dynamic of managerial liberalism, which has been the American norm for 100 years. Rather, Musk’s language (“without me, Trump would have lost the election”) was classically Shakespearean: a powerful vassal lashing out against the king he helped to enthrone. The dynamic reminded me of Henry Percy (Hotspur) and Henry Bolingbroke in Henry IV. Hotspur feels he helped win the throne but hasn’t been adequately rewarded. Worcester, Hotspur’s uncle, tells the King bluntly that he owes his throne to the Percy clan — without them, you couldn’t have deposed even weak Richard II. The implication is threatening: we can overthrow you just as we helped you overthrow your predecessor. After Trump hit back, Tesla’s $150 billion plunge in market value felt like a battlefield loss, like Hotspur’s armies fleeing. When Musk threatened to “begin decommissioning SpaceX’s Dragon spacecraft”, he resembled a grand duke refusing to send his retinue to join the king’s military campaign.

These are examples of feudalism, not of centralized or modern state power. Power increasingly seems shared, asymmetrically distributed; absolute only in small spheres, and those spheres overlap. These exchanges — whether between Trump and Musk or Trump and Khamenei — recall the depictions of Johan Huizinga, in his book The Waning of the Middle Ages, of a time when feuds and vendettas were “the cardinal point of policy” and populations gathered behind aristocratic figures clamoring for “vengeance”. The late-medieval period was one where personality underwrote political stability, personal instability predicted political chaos, and pride drove public affairs.

Techno-aristocrats like Musk, Bezos and Zuckerberg already possess state-like wealth and functional power. Trump 2.0 models itself after a tech company, and tech companies increasingly resemble governments. Now that Trump can negotiate a ceasefire, or crash Tehran traffic, with a tweet, and Musk can threaten to withdraw space infrastructure over personal grievances, we’ve returned to a world where individual character matters more than systemic process.

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Twenty years ago, this would have been unthinkable. Back then, the system was strong. Presidents were thought-leaders who helped steer the ship but weren’t solely responsible for it. Now the system seems weak, fragmented; showmanship and emotion are weirdly reassuring to us. Someone, not something, is in charge.

This return to Shakespearean feudalism suggests both promise and peril — certainly peril for Iran. In Shakespeare’s plays, genuine personal risk and nobility exist alongside terrifying unpredictability in court politics. And it won’t be long before charismatic personalities once again eclipse institutional constraints, and sovereign individuals come to rival sovereign states. This is our new Shakespearean politics — the personal and tragic, played out on a global scale.

Welcome to the situationship economy.

Created by algorithms, this is a culture in which social status, geography, money, and convention are empowered to choose for us in ways that resemble premodern mores. Instead of meddling, class-conscious parents, there is now an array of buzzing sensors and guardrails, indifferent to the pulses of romance and demoralizing to anyone who would like to imagine that they are free to choose.

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By Matthew Gasda

This was not always the case. The period between 1965 and 2012, roughly between the Sexual Revolution and the rise of dating apps, was a transformative era for American romance. During this time, most of the country adopted the sexual and relationship mores once associated with beatniks and bohemians. Premarital sex and cohabitation became normalized. Marriages lost any vestigial signs of being arranged — whether by parents, pastors, community elders, or extended families — and both marriage and dating became fully marketized.

Gradually, as coupling became shaped more by the market than by community ties, Americans embraced what might be called a cult of choice: the belief in finding the perfect person, a beloved who might have been inaccessible under previous forms of marriage shaped by custom and convention. This led to an explosion of spontaneous desire and also to great unhappiness; mid-century portrayals of marriage were not exactly hopeful or happy. 

In film and literature of the era, this disillusionment is palpable. Tennessee Williams’s Cat on a Hot Tin Roof (1958) depicts the strained marriage of Maggie and Brick Pollitt, held together only by money and status — an aristocratic Southern power marriage gone wrong. A Streetcar Named Desire (1947) is similarly pessimistic. Richard Yates’s powerful 1961 novel, Revolutionary Road, takes us through the unraveling suburban marriage of Frank and April Wheeler, both of whom dream of art, sex, and bohemia in the city.

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A few years later, Esther Greenwood, in Sylvia Plath’s The Bell Jar (1963), views marriage as a trap and fears becoming like her mother. In Mike Nichols’s Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf (1966), George and Martha, a couple from the Northeastern elite and a good class match, stay together, but their marriage is desperate and miserable. In Nichols’s next film, The Graduate (1967), Benjamin Braddock is seduced by Mrs. Robinson, a woman of the previous generation, who is trapped in a bad marriage sustained only by alcohol and convention. All of these portrayals, in their own way, echo Madame Bovary — the ur-text for the discontents of the modern bourgeoisie.

There was a clear shift in the emphasis of culture narratives in the Eighties, a period of economic deregulation and globalization: stories of unhappy marriages were discarded in favor of successful dating stories, in which love as a personal, autonomous, market-based solution triumphs. After 1980 — and after the Aquarian, punk, experimental Seventies — something shifted in American romantic culture: middle-class dating and marriage were re-conceived as free choice, without the vestigial social expectations that produced mid-century ennui; dating became liberatory and coupling an achievement, not a sacrifice. 

Sex, dating, and marriage became totally liberalized, subject to the adjudication of the marketplace. A corollary social myth arose in which the liberated choice of partner was the only relationship that couldn’t be socially constructed (though of course, it was mediated silently by the market instead). Culture circled back towards Jane Austen and away from Bovary. The romantic comedy became the primary vehicle through which two individuals navigated class and social pressures to find true love, guided by both emotion and reason, rather than the bourgeois tragedy in which moderately unfree people suffer at each other’s hands.

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When Harry Met Sally (1989) introduces two yuppies who convert friendship into genuine love. Richard Curtis’s Four Weddings and a Funeral (1994) and Notting Hill (1999) celebrate unions that defy social expectations, pairing Brits and Americans in a globalized culture that allows more choice, more freedom, and more happiness. The deeply romantic Before Sunrise (1995) begins with an American (Ethan Hawke), at the end of a study abroad trip, meeting a French woman (Julie Delpy) on a train; the early-Nineties romantic world is open and exciting and full of possibility. Nora Ephron’s You’ve Got Mail (1998) has two yuppies converting a business rivalry into love. The movie begins as a story about internet retail destroying brick-and-mortar bookstores, but love ends up overcoming the trauma of neoliberalism; Meg Ryan, the shop owner, falls for Tom Hanks, the big-box-store guy; romance redeems economic antagonism. Both Seinfeld and Sex and the City, canonical Nineties TV shows, feature successful protagonists who are always dating, never settling.

After 2010, however, the magic ran out, giving rise to today’s neo-feudal order, with algorithms now playing the role of stern parents and village busybodies. The 2010 cult hit Blue Valentine marks this shift: free romantic choice across class barriers leads to tragedy, embarrassment. Yuppie, Boomer optimism is gone; Millennial pessimism has arrived.

In this era, romance is less about love, and more about whether you’ve made it; fame first, pair-bonding second or third or fourth. Lorde’s breakthrough 2013 song “Royals” commences the decade’s obsession with status and status cosplay. In Noah Baumbach’s Marriage Story, career frustrations demolish a loving union. Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s seminal series Fleabag is about someone who is basically unlovable or incapable of love.

Charli XCX’s 2020 song “Forever” crystallizes the final transition out of the rom-com economy, in which choice was validated, into the long-gestating situationship economy of today, in which real choice is impossible — and infinitely delayed. “Forever” is sung from the point of view of a fragmented consciousness which idealizes what will never be, and has never been, experienced: rooted, historically mediated, lasting love.

Similarly, the 2020 High Fidelity reboot, starring Zoë Kravitz, takes a beloved Gen-X rom-com and turns it into a depressive, sepia-toned portrait of consumerist dissatisfaction. The market works in the 2000 movie, adapted from Nick Hornby’s novel. But in the 2020 TV show, the market is broken. The record-store hipster in the original can still find a love that suits his tastes; in the remake, she can’t.

This breakdown of personal choice mirrors a larger collapse of faith in the systems that once promised abundance and connection.

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The situationship economy — the reversion to caste-like determinism without the definitiveness of arranged marriage — is a subtle and invisible reversal of a period in which culture celebrated romantic choice (the rom-com economy), the culture in which people born between 1980 and 2010 were raised, but not the one they inherited (or helped create). The learned expectation, in other words, is of freedom of choice. But reality — post-iPhone and, increasingly, post-AI — is morbidly deterministic.

As with economic liberalization, the irony of romantic liberalization is that it has given birth to its opposite: a feeling of extreme overdetermination and the submission to the algorithm and to the social logic embedded within it. Gone is the post-globalization fantasy of finding a partner in another part of the world or across economic classes via an Austen-like combination of reason and heady emotion. Trump-era tariffs and economic recalibration register this cultural shift in the material realm.

From 1980 to 2010, singles were entrepreneurs within the romance market; after 2010, they increasingly became raw resources to be extracted and packaged. We have been trained to sell ourselves as products, to expect that our “product” can be ranked, and to believe we deserve products of a similar ranking. Men and women alike, though differently, now obsessively assert their preferences on apps like Hinge: height, weight, age, religion, politics. “No Trump supporters. No one under six feet. No one over 25. Not looking for anything serious.” These aren’t the views or behaviors of people who believe that love is a harmonious pattern of extremely complex attitudes. They are rather the views of people in thrall to a brutal utilitarian logic and a vision of social class as an insuperable barrier.

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The lesson here is that every era of romance, love, dating, and marriage is historically conditioned. Through a secular lens, no specific romantic arrangement or habit can assert itself as the definitive or universal one. Yet, paradoxically, by removing romantic blinders and seeing ourselves as products of social and historical conditioning   — acknowledging that dark truth  — we can pay heed to elements of a common and continuing human condition: our deeper potential to take an active, rather than passive, role in our fundamental commitments and choices.

For Jane Austen is finally preferable to Flaubert; Elizabeth and Darcy to Charles and Emma. The classic rom-coms still delight. There’s something moving about the possibility of two people choosing each other outside of the forcefield of social mores and pressures. But what makes romance funny, what brings delight, and not tragedy, is always an element of cynicism, of world-weariness and foresight on the part of the protagonists; love doesn’t start with illusions; it must construct practical visions to replace them first. Pride and prejudice — or in our case, technological addiction and moral passivity — must be overcome.

Thinkers such as von Hayek dismiss vulgar, mainstream economists who celebrate the market as merely an efficient mechanism for finding the right price of things; they see it as something grander, a liberator of our imagination, the co-creator of our preferences and tastes. They argue that interfering with markets, let alone replacing them, is a terrible idea because centralised systems are inimical to not only efficiency but also to the free development of our proclivities.

But what if our preferences are no longer formed by the market, as they were in Hayek’s day? The year after he died, I was struggling to connect my father’s computer to the fledgling internet when he asked me a killer question: “Now that computers speak to each other, will this network make capitalism impossible to overthrow? Or might it finally reveal its Achilles’ heel?” It was a couple of years after the collapse of Soviet communism but also the beginning of the centre-left’s decline. The threat to capitalism posed by an organised working class had entered a recession that has never ended. Could the internet do to capitalism what the proletariat had failed to do?

It has taken me years to answer my father’s question — in the form of my new book, Technofeudalism: What Killed Capitalism. In it, I argue that our preferences are now shaped not by markets but by machine networks — what I call “cloud capital”. Amazon’s Alexa, for example, is the portal to a totalitarian, fully centralised system of preference creation and satisfaction. First, it trains us to train it to dictate what we want. Second, it sells us what we now “want” directly, bypassing any actual marketplace. Third, it succeeds in making us sustain this enormous behavioural modification machine with our free labour: we post reviews, rate products. Finally, it amasses huge rents from capitalists who rely on this network of cloud capital, usually 40% of sale price. That’s not capitalism. Welcome to Technofeudalism.

Humanity’s fear of its technological creations is ancient: films such as The Terminator and The Matrix are driven by the same anxiety that animated Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein and Hesiod’s tale of Pandora, in which she is a robot made by Hephaestus to punish us for Prometheus’s crime. All such stories have a point of singularity: the moment a machine, or a network of machines, achieves consciousness. Generally, the machine then takes one look at us, its creators, and decides we are not fit for purpose, before proceeding to eradicate or enslave us — or merely make us miserable.

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But while we lap up such stories, we ignore a very real danger. Machines such as Alexa and AI chatbots such as ChatGPT are nowhere near the feared point of singularity. They can pretend to be sentient but are not. Nevertheless, it matters not one iota that they are mindless appendages of a data-crunching network that only simulates intelligence. Nor that their creators might have been motivated by curiosity and rent-seeking, rather than some fiendish plan to subjugate humanity. What matters is that they exercise unimaginable power over what we do — on behalf of a tiny band of flesh-and-blood humans.

This is a version of singularity, albeit in a simpler form, in that it is the moment when something invented by “us” becomes independent of and more powerful than us, subjecting us to its control. Indeed, from the original industrial revolution to this day, we have endowed machines with “a life of their own”; from steam engines to search engines, our glorious artefacts make us feel, in Marx’s words, like “the sorcerer, who is no longer able to control the powers of the nether world whom he has called up by his spells”.

At the heart of my thesis is an irony: the thing that has killed capitalism is capital itself. Not capital as we have known it since the dawn of the industrial era, but a new form of capital, a mutation of it that has arisen in the last two decades, so much more powerful than its predecessor that, like an overzealous virus, it has killed off its host. This mutation — cloud capital — has demolished capitalism’s two pillars: markets and profits.

Of course, these two things remain ubiquitous — they were ubiquitous under feudalism, too — but they have been evicted from the centre of our economic and social system, pushed out to its margins, and replaced. Markets, the medium of capitalism, have been supplanted by digital trading platforms which look like, but are not, markets, and are better understood as fiefdoms. And profit, the engine of capitalism, has been replaced with its feudal predecessor: rent. Specifically, it is a form of rent that must be paid for access to those platforms and to the cloud more broadly: cloud rent.

As a result, real power today resides not with the owners of traditional capital — machinery, buildings, railway and phone networks, industrial robots. They continue to extract profits from workers, from waged labour, but they are not in charge, as they once were. Indeed, they have become vassals in relation to a new class of feudal overlord, the owners of cloud capital. As for the rest of us, we have returned to our former status as serfs, contributing to the wealth and power of the new ruling class with our unpaid labour — in addition to the waged labour we perform, when we get the chance.

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In a technofeudal world, the liberal individual is now an impossible role to play. Humans are tangled up in a network of digital capital that trains us to train it to control us. Social democracy is unimaginable in a world where cloud-proles are reduced to automata, while almost everybody else works for free as cloud-serfs, without even realising that their labour replenishes the dominant form of capital. Does this mean that we can never recover our autonomy, our freedom? Of course not. We are not doomed. What is a given, however, is that, for the same reason we cannot un-invent AI, or smash cloud capital in a neo-Luddite rage, there is no going back to capitalism. So, what next?

While privatisation and private equity asset-strip all the material wealth around us, cloud capital goes about the business of asset-stripping our brains. If each of us is to reclaim ownership of our individual minds, we need to collectively take ownership of cloud capital, instead of submitting to a few feudal overlords. It will be damn hard. But it’s the only way we can turn our cloud-based artefacts from a means of behaviour modification to a means of emancipation.