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Tag: cyberlibertarianism

  • David Gerard — Creationism on the Blockchain (review of George Gilder, Life After Google)

    David Gerard — Creationism on the Blockchain (review of George Gilder, Life After Google)

    a review of George Gilder, Life After Google: The Fall of Big Data and the Rise of the Blockchain Economy (Regnery, 2018)

    by David Gerard

    George Gilder is most famous as a conservative author and speechwriter. He also knows his stuff about technology, and has a few things to say.

    But what he has to say about blockchain in his book Life After Google is rambling, ill-connected and unconvincing — and falls prey to the fixed points in his thinking.

    Gilder predicts that the Google and Silicon Valley approach — big data, machine learning, artificial intelligence, not charging users per transaction — is failing to scale, and will collapse under its own contradictions.

    The Silicon Valley giants will be replaced by a world built around cryptocurrency, blockchains, sound money … and the obsolescence of philosophical materialism — the theory that thought and consciousness needs only physical reality. That last one turns out to be Gilder’s main point.

    At his best, as in his 1990 book Life After Television, Gilder explains consequences following from historical materialism — Marx and Engels’ theory that historical events emerge from economic developments and changes to the mode of production — to a conservative readership enamoured with the obsolete Great Man theory of history.

    (That said, Gilder sure does love his Great Men. Men specifically.)

    Life After Google purports to be about material forces that follow directly from technology. Gilder then mixes in his religious beliefs as, literally, claims about mathematics.

    Gilder has a vastly better understanding of technology than most pop science writers. If Gilder talks tech, you should listen. He did a heck of a lot of work on getting out there and talking to experts for this book.

    But Gilder never quite makes his case that blockchains are the solutions to the problems he presents — he just presents the existence of blockchains, then talks as if they’ll obviously solve everything.

    Blockchains promise Gilder comfort in certainty: “The new era will move beyond Markov chains of disconnected probabilistic states to blockchain hashes of history and futurity, trust and truth,” apparently.

    The book was recommended to me by a conservative friend, who sent me a link to an interview with Gilder on the Hoover Institution’s Uncommon Knowledge podcast. My first thought was “another sad victim of blockchain white papers.” You see this a lot — people tremendously excited by blockchain’s fabulous promises, with no idea that none of this stuff works or can work.

    Gilder’s particular errors are more interesting. And — given his real technical expertise — less forgivable.

    Despite its many structural issues — the book seems to have been left in dire need of proper editing — Life After Google was a hit with conservatives. Peter Thiel is a noteworthy fan. So we may need to pay attention. Fortunately, I’ve read it so you don’t have to.

    About the Author

    Gilder is fêted in conservative circles. His 1981 book Wealth and Poverty was a favourite of supply-side economics proponents in the Reagan era. He owned conservative magazine The American Spectator from 2000 to 2002.

    Gilder is frequently claimed to have been Ronald Reagan’s favourite living author — mainly in his own publicity: “According to a study of presidential speeches, Mr. Gilder was President Reagan’s most frequently quoted living author.”

    I tried tracking down this claim — and all citations I could find trace back to just one article: “The Gilder Effect” by Larissa MacFarquhar, in The New Yorker, 29 May 2000.

    The claim is one sentence in passing: “It is no accident that Gilder — scourge of feminists, unrepentant supply-sider, and now, at sixty, a technology prophet — was the living author Reagan most often quoted.” The claim isn’t substantiated further in the New Yorker article — it reads like the journalist was told this and just put it in for colour.

    Gilder despises feminism, and has described himself as “America’s number-one antifeminist.” He has written two books — Sexual Suicide, updated as Men and Marriage, and Naked Nomads — on this topic alone.

    Also, per Gilder, Native American culture collapsed because it’s “a corrupt and unsuccessful culture,” as is Black culture — and not because of, e.g., massive systemic racism.

    Gilder believes the biological theory of evolution is wrong. He co-founded the Discovery Institute in 1990, as an offshoot of the Hudson Institute. The Discovery Institute started out with papers on economic issues, but rapidly pivoted to promoting “intelligent design” — the claim that all living creatures were designed by “a rational agent,” and not evolved through natural processes. It’s a fancy term for creationism.

    Gilder insisted for years that the Discovery Institute’s promotion of intelligent design totally wasn’t religious — even as judges ruled that intelligent design in schools was promotion of religion. Unfortunately for Gilder, we have the smoking gun documents showing that the Discovery Institute was explicitly trying to push religion into schools — the leaked Wedge Strategy document literally says: “Design theory promises to reverse the stifling dominance of the materialist worldview, and to replace it with a science consonant with Christian and theistic convictions.”

    Gilder’s politics are approximately the polar opposite of mine. But the problems I had with Life After Google are problems his fans have also had. Real Clear Marketsreview is a typical example — it’s from the conservative media sphere and written by a huge Gilder fan, and he’s very disappointed at how badly the book makes its case for blockchain.

    Gilder’s still worth taking seriously on tech, because he’s got a past record of insight — particularly his 1990s books Life After Television and Telecosm.

    Life After Television

    Life After Television: The Coming Transformation of Media and American Life is why people take Gilder seriously as a technology pundit. First published in 1990, it was expanded in 1992 and again in 1994.

    The book predicts television’s replacement with computers on networks — the downfall of the top-down system of television broadcasting and the cultural hegemony it implies. “A new age of individualism is coming, and it will bring an eruption of culture unprecedented in human history.” Gilder does pretty well — his 1990 vision of working from home is a snapshot of 2020, complete with your boss on Zoom.

    You could say this was obvious to anyone paying attention — Gilder’s thesis rests on technology that had already shown itself capable of supporting the future he spelt out — but not a lot of people in the mainstream were paying attention, and the industry was in blank denial. Even Wired, a few years later, was mostly still just terribly excited that the Internet was coming at all.

    Life After Television talks way more about the fall of the television industry than the coming future network. In the present decade, it’s best read as a historical record of past visions of the astounding future.

    If you remember the first two or three years of Wired magazine, that’s the world Gilder’s writing from. Gilder mentored Wired and executive editor Kevin Kelly in its first few years, and appeared on the cover of the March 1996 edition. Journalist and author Paulina Borsook detailed Gilder’s involvement in Wired in her classic 2000 book Cyberselfish: A Critical Romp through the Terribly Libertarian Culture of High Tech, (also see an earlier article of the same name in Mother Jones) which critiques his politics including his gender politics at length, noting that “Gilder worshipped entrepreneurs and inventors and appeared to have found God in a microchip” (132-3) and describing “a phallus worship he has in common with Ayn Rand” (143).

    The only issue I have with Gilder’s cultural predictions in Life After Television is that he doesn’t mention the future network’s negative side-effects — which is a glaring miss in a world where E. M. Forster predicted social media and some of its effects in The Machine Stops in 1909.

    The 1994 edition of Life After Television goes in quite a bit harder than the 1990 edition. The book doesn’t say “Internet,” doesn’t mention the Linux computer operating system — which was already starting to be a game-changer — and only says “worldwide web” in the sense of “the global ganglion of computers and cables, the new worldwide web of glass and light.” (p23) But then there’s the occasional blinder of a paragraph, such as his famous prediction of the iPhone and its descendants:

    Indeed, the most common personal computer of the next decade will be a digital cellular phone. Called personal digital assistants, among many other coinages, they will be as portable as a watch and as personal as a wallet; they will recognise speech and navigate streets, open the door and start the car, collect the mail and the news and the paycheck, connecting to thousands of databases of all kinds. (p20)

    Gilder’s 1996 followup Telecosm is about what unlimited bandwidth would mean. It came just in time for a minor bubble in telecom stocks, because the Internet was just getting popular. Gilder made quite a bit of money in stock-picking, and so did subscribers to his newsletter — everyone’s a financial genius in a bubble. Then that bubble popped, and Gilder and his subscribers lost their shirts. But his main error was just being years early.

    So if Gilder talks tech, he’s worth paying attention to. Is he right, wrong, or just early?

    Gilder, Bitcoin and Gold

    Gilder used to publish through larger generalist publishers. But since around 2000, he’s published through small conservative presses such as Regnery, small conservative think tanks, or his own Discovery Institute. Regnery, the publisher of Life After Google, is functionally a vanity press for the US far right, famous for, among other things, promising to publish a book by US Senator Josh Hawley after Simon & Schuster dropped it due to Hawley’s involvement with the January 6th capital insurrection.

    Gilder caught on to Bitcoin around 2014. He told Reason that Bitcoin was “the perfect libertarian solution to the money enigma.”

    In 2015, his monograph The 21st Century Case for Gold: A New Information Theory of Money was published by the American Principles Project — a pro-religious conservative think tank that advocates a gold standard and “hard money.”

    This earlier book uses Bitcoin as a source of reasons that an economy based on gold could work in the 21st century:

    Researches in Bitcoin and other digital currencies have shown that the real source of the value of any money is its authenticity and reliability as a measuring stick of economic activity. A measuring stick cannot be part of what it measures. The theorists of Bitcoin explicitly tied its value to the passage of time, which proceeds relentlessly beyond the reach of central banks.

    Gilder drops ideas and catch-phrases from The 21st Century Case for Gold all through Life After Google without explaining himself — he just seems to assume you’re fully up on the Gilder Cinematic Universe. An editor should have caught this — a book needs to work as a stand-alone.

    Life After Google’s Theses

    The theses of Life After Google are:

    • Google and Silicon Valley’s hegemony is bad.
    • Google and Silicon Valley do capitalism wrong, and this is why they will collapse from their internal contradictions.
    • Blockchain will solve the problems with Silicon Valley.
    • Artificial intelligence is impossible, because Gödel, Turing and Shannon proved mathematically that creativity cannot result without human consciousness that comes from God.

    This last claim is the real point of the book. Gilder affirmed that this was the book’s point in an interview with WND.

    I should note, by the way, that Gödel, Turing and Shannon proved nothing of the sort. Gilder claims repeatedly that they and other mathematicians did, however.

    Marxism for Billionaires

    Gilder’s objections to Silicon Valley were reasonably mainstream and obvious by 2018. They don’t go much beyond what Clifford Stoll said in Silicon Snake Oil in 1995. And Stoll was speaking to his fellow insiders. (Gilder cites Stoll, though he calls him “Ira Stoll.”) But Gilder finds the points still worth making to his conservative audience, as in this early 2018 Forbes interview:

    A lot of people have an incredible longing to reduce human intelligence to some measurable crystallization that can be grasped, calculated, projected and mechanized. I think this is a different dimension of the kind of Silicon Valley delusion that I describe in my upcoming book.

    Gilder’s scepticism of Silicon Valley is quite reasonable … though he describes Silicon Valley as having adopted “what can best be described as a neo-Marxist political ideology and technological vision.”

    There is no thing, no school of thought, that is properly denoted “neo-Marxism.” In the wild, it’s usually a catch-all for everything the speaker doesn’t like. It’s a boo-word.

    Gilder probably realises that it comes across as inane to label the ridiculously successful billionaire and near-trillionaire capitalists of the present day as any form of “Marxist.” He attempts to justify his usage:

    Marx’s essential tenet was that in the future, the key problem of economics would become not production amid scarcity but redistribution of abundance.

    That’s not really regarded as the key defining point of Marxism by anyone else anywhere. (Maybe Elon Musk, when he’s tweeting words he hasn’t looked up.) I expect the libertarian post-scarcity transhumanists of the Bay Area, heavily funded by Gilder’s friend Peter Thiel, would be disconcerted too.

    “Neo-Marxism” doesn’t rate further mention in the book — though Gilder does use the term in the Uncommon Knowledge podcast interview. Y’know, there’s red-baiting to get in.

    So — Silicon Valley’s “neo-marxism” sucks. “It is time for a new information architecture for a globally distributed economy. Fortunately, it is on its way.” Can you guess what it is?

    You’re Doing Capitalism Wrong

    Did you know that Isaac Newton was the first Austrian economist? I didn’t. (I still don’t.)

    Gilder doesn’t say this outright. He does speak of Newton’s work in physics, as a “system of the world,” a phrase he confesses to having lifted from Neal Stephenson.

    But Gilder is most interested in Newton’s work as Master of the Mint — “Newton’s biographers typically underestimate his achievement in establishing the information theory of money on a firm foundation.”

    There is no such thing as “the information theory of money” — this is a Gilder coinage from his 2015 book The 21st Century Case for Gold.

    Gilder’s economic ideas aren’t quite Austrian economics, but he’s fond of their jargon, and remains a huge fan of gold:

    The failure of his alchemy gave him — and the world — precious knowledge that no rival state or private bank, wielding whatever philosopher’s stone, would succeed in making a better money. For two hundred years, beginning with Newton’s appointment to the Royal Mint in 1696, the pound, based on the chemical irreversibility of gold, was a stable and reliable monetary Polaris.

    I’m pretty sure this is not how it happened, and that the ascendancy of Great Britain’s pound sterling had everything to do with it being backed by a world-spanning empire, and not any other factor. But Gilder goes one better:

    Fortunately the lineaments of a new system of the world have emerged. It could be said to have been born in early September 1930, when a gold-based Reichsmark was beginning to subdue the gales of hyperinflation that had ravaged Germany since the mid-1920s.

    I am unconvinced that this quite explains Germany in the 1930s. The name of an obvious and well-known political figure, who pretty much everyone else considers quite important in discussing Germany in the 1930s, is not mentioned in this book.

    The rest of the chapter is a puréed slurry of physics, some actual information theory, a lot of alleged information theory, and Austrian economics jargon, giving the impression that these are all the same thing as far as Gilder is concerned.

    Gilder describes what he thinks is Google’s “System of the World” — “The Google theory of knowledge, nicknamed ‘big data,’ is as radical as Newton’s and as intimidating as Newton’s was liberating.” There’s an “AI priesthood” too.

    A lot of people were concerned early on about Google-like data sponges. Here’s Gilder on the forces at play:

    Google’s idea of progress stems from its technological vision. Newton and his fellows, inspired by their Judeo-Christian world view, unleashed a theory of progress with human creativity and free will at its core. Google must demur.

    … Finally, Google proposes, and must propose, an economic standard, a theory of money and value, of transactions and the information they convey, radically opposed to what Newton wrought by giving the world a reliable gold standard.

    So Google’s failures include not proposing a gold standard, or perhaps the opposite.

    Open source software is also part of this evil Silicon Valley plot — the very concept of open source. Because you don’t pay for each copy. Google is evil for participating in “a cult of the commons (rooted in ‘open source’ software)”.

    I can’t find anywhere that Gilder has commented on Richard M. Stallman’s promotion of Free Software, of which “open source” was a business-friendly politics-washed rebranding — but I expect that if he had, the explosion would have been visible from space.

    Gilder’s real problem with Google is how the company conducts its capitalism — how it applies creativity to the goal of actually making money. He seems to consider the successful billionaires of our age “neo-Marxist” because they don’t do capitalism the way he thinks they should.

    I’m reminded of Bitcoin Austrians — Saifedean Ammous in The Bitcoin Standard is a good example — who argue with the behaviour of the real-life markets, when said markets are so rude as not to follow the script in their heads. Bitcoin maximalists regard Bitcoin as qualitatively unique, unable to be treated in any way like the hodgepodge of other things called “cryptos,” and a separate market of its own.

    But the real-life crypto markets treat this as all one big pile of stuff, and trade it all on much the same basis. The market does not care about your ideology, only its own.

    Gilder mixes up his issues with the Silicon Valley ideology — the Californian Ideology, or cyberlibertarianism, as it’s variously termed in academia — with a visceral hatred of capitalists who don’t do capitalism his way. He seems to despise the capitalists who don’t do it his way more than he despises people who don’t do capitalism at all.

    (Gilder was co-author of the 1994 document “Magna Carta for the Knowledge Age” that spurred Langdon Winner to come up with the term “cyberlibertarianism” in the first place.)

    Burning Man is bad because it’s a “commons cult” too. Gilder seems to be partially mapping out the Californian Ideology from the other side.

    Gilder is outraged by Google’s lack of attention to security, in multiple senses of the word — customer security, software security, military security. Blockchain will fix all of this — somehow. It just does, okay?

    Ads are apparently dying. Google runs on ads — but they’re on their way out. People looking to buy things search on Amazon itself first, then purchase things for money — in the proper businesslike manner.

    Gilder doesn’t mention the sizable share of Amazon’s 2018 income that came from sales of advertising on its own platform. Nor does Gilder mention that Amazon’s entire general store business, which he approves of, posted huge losses in 2018, and was subsidised by Amazon’s cash-positive business line, the Amazon Web Services computing cloud.

    Gilder visits Google’s data centre in The Dalles, Oregon. He notes that Google embodies Sun Microsystems’ old slogan “The Network is the Computer,” coined by John Gage of Sun in 1984 — though Gilder attributes this insight to Eric Schmidt, later of Google, based on an email that Schmidt sent Gilder when he was at Sun in 1993.

    All successful technologies develop on an S-curve, a sigmoid function. They take off, raise in what looks like exponential growth … and then they level off. This is normal and expected. Gilder knows this. Correctly calling the levelling-off stage is good and useful tech punditry.

    Gilder notes the siren call temptations of having vastly more computing power than anyone else — then claims that Google will therefore surely fail. Nothing lasts forever; but Gilder doesn’t make the case for his claimed reasons.

    Gilder details Google’s scaling problems at length — but at no point addresses blockchains’ scaling problems: a blockchain open to all participants can’t scale and stay fast and secure (the “blockchain trilemma”). I have no idea how he missed this one. If he could see that Google has scaling problems, how could he not even mention that public blockchains have scaling problems?

    Gilder has the technical knowledge to be able to understand this is a key question, ask it and answer it. But he just doesn’t.

    How would a blockchain system do the jobs presently done by the large companies he’s talking about? What makes Amazon good when Google is bad? The mere act of selling goods? Gilder resorts entirely to extrapolation from axioms, and never bothers with the step where you’d expect him to compare his results to the real world. Why would any of this work?

    Gilder is fascinated by the use of Markov chains to statistically predict the next element of a series: “By every measure, the most widespread, immense, and influential of Markov chains today is Google’s foundational algorithm, PageRank, which encompasses the petabyte reaches of the entire World Wide Web.”

    Gilder interviews Robert Mercer — the billionaire whose Mercer Family Foundation helped bankroll Trump, Bannon, Brexit, and those parts of the alt-right that Peter Thiel didn’t fund.

    Mercer started as a computer scientist. He made his money on Markov-related algorithms for financial trading — automating tiny trades that made no human sense, only statistical sense.

    This offends Gilder’s sensibilities:

    This is the financial counterpart of Markov models at Google translating languages with no knowledge of them. Believing as I do in the centrality of knowledge and learning in capitalism, I found this fact of life and leverage absurd. If no new knowledge was generated, no real wealth was created. As Peter Drucker said, ‘It is less important to do things right than to do the right things.’

    Gilder is faced with a stupendously successful man, whose ideologies he largely concurs with, and who’s won hugely at capitalism — “Mercer and his consort of superstar scholars have, mutatis mutandis, excelled everyone else in the history of finance” — but in a way that is jarringly at odds with his own deeply-held beliefs.

    Gilder believes Mercer’s system, like Google’s, “is based on big data that will face diminishing returns. It is founded on frequencies of trading that fail to correspond to any real economic activity.”

    Gilder holds that it’s significant that Mercer’s model can’t last forever. But this is hardly a revelation — nothing lasts forever, and especially not an edge in the market. It’s the curse of hedge funds that any process that exploits inefficiencies will run out of other people’s inefficiencies in a few years, as the rest of the market catches on. Gilder doesn’t make the case that Mercer’s trick will fail any faster than it would be expected to just by being an edge in a market.

    Ten Laws of the Cryptocosm

    Chapter 5 is “Ten Laws of the Cryptocosm”. These aren’t from anywhere else — Gilder just made them up for this book.

    “Cryptocosm” is a variant on Gilder’s earlier coinage “Telecosm,” the title of his 1996 book.

    Blockchain spectators should be able to spot the magical foreshadowing term in rule four:

    The fourth rule is “Nothing is free. This rule is fundamental to human dignity and worth. Capitalism requires companies to serve their customers and to accept their proof of work, which is money. Banishing money, companies devalue their customers.

    Rules six and nine are straight out of The Bitcoin Standard:

    The sixth rule: ‘Stable money endows humans with dignity and control.’ Stable money reflects the scarcity of time. Without stable money, an economy is governed only by time and power.

    The ninth rule is ‘Private keys are held by individual human beings, not by governments or Google.’ … Ownership of private keys distributes power.

    In a later chapter, Gilder critiques The Bitcoin Standard, which he broadly approves of.

    Gödel’s Incompetence Theorem

    Purveyors of pseudoscience frequently drop the word “quantum” or “chaos theory” to back their woo-mongering in areas that aren’t physics or mathematics. There’s a strain of doing the same thing with Gödel’s incompleteness theorems to make remarkable claims in areas that aren’t maths.

    What Kurt Gödel actually said was that if you use logic to build your mathematical theorems, you have a simple choice: either your system is incomplete, meaning you can’t prove every statement that is true, and you can’t know which of the unproven statements are true — or you introduce internal contradictions. So you can have holes in your maths, or you can be wrong.

    Gödel’s incompleteness theorems had a huge impact on the philosophy of mathematics. They seriously affected Bertrand Russell’s work on the logicism programme, to model all of mathematics as formal logic, and caused issues for Hilbert’s second problem, which sought a proof that arithmetic is consistent — that is, free of any internal contradictions.

    It’s important to note that Gödel’s theorems only apply in a particular technical sense, to particular very specific mathematical constructs. All the words are mathematical jargon, and not English.

    But humans have never been able to resist a good metaphor — so, as with quantum physics, chaos theory and Turing completeness, people seized upon “Gödel” and ran off in all directions.

    One particular fascination was what the theorems meant for the idea of philosophical materialism — whether interesting creatures like humans could really be completely explained by ordinary mathematics-based physics, or if there was something more in there. Gödel himself essayed haltingly in the direction of saying he thought there might be more than physics there — though he was slightly constrained by knowing what the mathematics actually said.

    Compare the metaphor abuse surrounding blockchains. Deploy a mundane data structure and a proof-of-work system to determine who adds the next bit of data, and thus provide technically-defined, constrained and limited versions of “trustlessness,” “irreversibility” and “decentralisation.” People saw these words, and attributed their favoured shade of meaning of the plain-language words to anything even roughly descended from the mundane data structure — or that claimed it would be descended from it some time in the future.

    Gilder takes Gödel’s incompleteness theorems, adds Claude Shannon on information theory, and mixes in his own religious views. He asserts that the mathematics of Shannon’s information theory and Gödel’s incompleteness theorems prove that creativity can only come from a human consciousness, created by God. Therefore, artificial intelligence is impossible.

    This startling conclusion isn’t generally accepted. Torkel Franzén’s excellent Gödel’s Theorem: An Incomplete Guide to Its Use and Abuse, chapter 4, spends several pages bludgeoning variations on this dumb and bad idea to death:

    there is no such thing as the formally defined language, the axioms, and the rules of inference of “human thought,” and so it makes no sense to speak of applying the incompleteness theorem to human thought.

    If something is not literally a mathematical “formal system,” Gödel doesn’t apply to it.

    The free Google searches and the fiat currencies are side issues — what Gilder really loathes is the very concept of artificial intelligence. It offends him.

    Gilder leans heavily on the ideas of Gregory Chaitin — one of the few mathematicians with a track record of achievement in information theory who also buys into the idea that Gödel’s incompleteness theorem may disprove philosophical materialism. Of the few people convinced by Chaitin’s arguments, most happen to have matching religious beliefs.

    It’s one thing to evaluate technologies according to an ethical framework informed by your religion. It’s quite another to make technological pronouncements directly from your religious views, and to claim mathematical backing for your religious views.

    Your Plastic Pal Who’s Fun to Be With

    Chapter 7 talks about artificial intelligence, and throwing hardware at the problem of machine learning. But it’s really about Gilder’s loathing of the notion of a general artificial intelligence that would be meaningfully comparable to a human being.

    The term “artificial intelligence” has never denoted any particular technology — it’s the compelling science-fictional vision of your plastic pal who’s fun to be with, especially when he’s your unpaid employee. This image has been used through the past few decades to market a wide range of systems that do a small amount of the work a human might otherwise do.

    But throughout Life After Google, Gilder conflates the hypothetical concept of human-equivalent general artificial intelligence with the statistical machine learning products that are presently marketed as “artificial intelligence.”

    Gilder’s next book, Gaming AI: Why AI Can’t Think but Can Transform Jobs (Discovery Institute, 2020), confuses the two somewhat less — but still hammers on his completely wrong ideas about Gödel.

    Gilder ends the chapter with three paragraphs setting out the book’s core thesis:

    The current generation in Silicon Valley has yet to come to terms with the findings of von Neumann and Gödel early in the last century or with the breakthroughs in information theory of Claude Shannon, Gregory Chaitin, Anton Kolmogorov, and John R. Pierce. In a series of powerful arguments, Chaitin, the inventor of algorithmic information theory, has translated Gödel into modern terms. When Silicon Valley’s AI theorists push the logic of their case to explosive extremes, they defy the most crucial findings of twentieth-century mathematics and computer science. All logical schemes are incomplete and depend on propositions that they cannot prove. Pushing any logical or mathematical argument to extremes — whether ‘renormalized’ infinities or parallel universe multiplicities — scientists impel it off the cliffs of Gödelian incompleteness.

    Chaitin’s ‘mathematics of creativity’ suggests that in order to push the technology forward it will be necessary to transcend the deterministic mathematical logic that pervades existing computers. Anything deterministic prohibits the very surprises that define information and reflect real creation. Gödel dictates a mathematics of creativity.

    This mathematics will first encounter a major obstacle in the stunning successes of the prevailing system of the world not only in Silicon Valley but also in finance.

    There’s a lot to unpack here. (That’s an academic jargon phrase meaning “yikes!”) But fundamentally, Gilder believes that Gödel’s incompleteness theorems mean that artificial intelligence can’t come up with true creativity. Because Gilder is a creationist.

    The only place I can find Chaitin using a phrase akin to “mathematics of creativity” is in his 2012 book of intelligent design advocacy, Proving Darwin: Making Biology Mathematical, which Gilder cites. Chaitin writes:

    To repeat: Life is plastic, creative! How can we build this out of static, perfect mathematics? We shall use postmodern math, the mathematics that comes after Gödel, 1931, and Turing, 1936, open not closed math, the math of creativity, in fact.

    Whenever you see Gilder talk about “information theory,” remember that he’s using the special creationist sense of the term — a claim that biological complexity without God pushing it along would require new information being added, and that this is impossible.

    Real information theory doesn’t say anything of the sort — the creationist version is a made-up pseudotheory, developed at the Discovery Institute. It’s the abuse of a scientific metaphor to claim that a loose analogy from an unrelated field is a solid scientific claim.

    Gilder’s doing the thing that bitcoiners, anarchocapitalists and neoreactionaries do — where they ask a lot of the right questions, but come up with answers that are completely on crack, based on abuse of theories that they didn’t bother understanding.

    Chapter 9 is about libertarian transhumanists of the LessWrong tendency, at the 2017 Future Of Life conference on hypothetical future artificial intelligences, hosted by physicist Max Tegmark.

    Eliezer Yudkowsky, the founder of LessWrong, isn’t named or quoted, but the concerns are all reheated Yudkowsky: that a human-equivalent general artificial intelligence will have intelligence but not human values, will rapidly increase its intelligence, and thus its power, vastly beyond human levels, and so will doom us all. Therefore, we must program artificial intelligence to have human values — whatever those are.

    Yudkowsky is not a programmer, but an amateur philosopher. His charity, the Machine Intelligence Research Institute (MIRI), does no programming, and its research outputs are occasional papers in mathematics. Until recently, MIRI was funded by Peter Thiel, but it’s now substantially funded by large Ethereum holders.

    Gilder doesn’t buy Yudkowsky’s AI doomsday theory at all — he firmly believes that artificial intelligence cannot form a mind because, uh, Gödel: “The blind spot of AI is that consciousness does not emerge from thought; it is the source of it.”

    Gilder doesn’t mention that this is because, as a creationist, he believes that true intelligence lies in souls. But he does say “The materialist superstition is a strange growth in an age of information.” So this chapter turns into an exposition of creationist “information theory”:

    This materialist superstition keeps the entire Google generation from understanding mind and creation. Consciousness depends on faith—the ability to act without full knowledge and thus the ability to be surprised and to surprise. A machine by definition lacks consciousness. A machine is part of a determinist order. Lacking surprise or the ability to be surprised, it is self-contained and determined.

    That is: Gilder defines consciousness as whatever it is a machine cannot have, therefore a machine cannot achieve consciousness.

    Real science shows that the universe is a singularity and thus a creation. Creation is an entropic product of a higher consciousness echoed by human consciousness. This higher consciousness, which throughout human history we have found it convenient to call God, endows human creators with the space to originate surprising things.

    You will be unsurprised to hear that “real science” does not say anything like this. But that paragraph is the closest Gilder comes in this book to naming the creationism that drives his outlook.

    The roots of nearly a half-century of frustration reach back to the meeting in Königsberg in 1930, where von Neumann met Gödel and launched the computer age by showing that determinist mathematics could not produce creative consciousness.

    You will be further unsurprised to hear that von Neumann and Gödel never produced a work saying any such thing.

    We’re nine chapters in, a third of the way through the book, and someone from the blockchain world finally shows up — and, indeed, the first appearance of the word “blockchain” in the book at all. Vitalik Buterin, founder of Ethereum and MIRI’s largest individual donor, attends Tegmark’s AI conference: “Buterin succinctly described his company, Ethereum, launched in July 2015, as a ‘blockchain app platform.’”

    The blockchain is “an open, distributed, unhackable ledger devised in 2008 by the unknown person (or perhaps group) known as ‘Satoshi Nakamoto’ to support his cryptocurrency, bitcoin.” This is the closest Gilder comes at any point in the book to saying what a blockchain in fact is.

    Gilder says the AI guys are ignoring the power of blockchain — but they’ll get theirs, oh yes they will:

    Google and its world are looking in the wrong direction. They are actually in jeopardy, not from an all-powerful artificial intelligence, but from a distributed, peer-to-peer revolution supporting human intelligence — the blockchain and new crypto-efflorescence … Google’s security foibles and AI fantasies are unlikely to survive the onslaught of this new generation of cryptocosmic technology.

    Gilder asserts later in the book:

    They see the advance of automation, machine learning, and artificial intelligence as occupying a limited landscape of human dominance and control that ultimately will be exhausted in a robotic universe — Life 3.0. But Charles Sanders Peirce, Kurt Gödel, Alonzo Church, Alan Turing, Emil Post, and Gregory Chaitin disproved this assumption on the most fundamental level of mathematical logic itself.

    These mathematicians still didn’t do any such thing.

    Gilder’s forthcoming book Life after Capitalism (Regnery, 2022), with a 2021 National Review essay as a taster, asserts that his favoured mode of capitalism will reassert itself. Its thesis invokes Gilder’s notions of what he thinks information theory says.

    How Does Blockchain Do All This?

    Gilder has explained the present-day world, and his problems with it. The middle section of the book then goes through several blockchain-related companies and people who catch Gilder’s attention.

    It’s around here that we’d expect Gilder to start explaining what the blockchain is, how it works, and precisely how it will break the Google paradigm of big data, machine learning and artificial intelligence — the way he did when talking about the downfall of television.

    Gilder doesn’t even bother — he just starts talking about bitcoin and blockchains as Google-beaters, and carries through on the assumption that this is understood.

    But he can’t get away with this — he claims to be making a case for the successor to the Google paradigm, a technological case … and he just doesn’t ever do so.

    By the end of this section, Gilder seems to think he’s made his point clear that Google is having trouble scaling up — because they don’t charge a micro-payment for each interaction, or something — therefore various blockchain promises will win.

    The trouble with this syllogism is that the second part doesn’t follow. Gilder presents blockchain projects he thinks have potential — but that’s all. He makes the first case, and just doesn’t make the second.

    Peter Thiel Hates Universities Very Much

    Instead, let’s go to the 1517 Fund — “led by venture capitalist-hackers Danielle Strachman and Mike Gibson and partly financed by Peter Thiel.” Gilder is also a founding partner.

    Gilder is a massive Thiel fan, calling him “the master investor-philosopher Peter Thiel”:

    Thiel is the leading critic of Silicon Valley’s prevailing philosophy of ‘inevitable’ innovation. [Larry] Page, on the other hand, is a machine-learning maximalist who believes that silicon will soon outperform human beings, however you want to define the difference.

    Thiel is a fan of Gilder, and Life After Google, in turn.

    The 1517 Fund’s name comes from “another historic decentralization” — 31 October 1517 was the day that Martin Luther put up his ninety-five theses on a church door in Wittenberg.

    The 1517 team want to take down the government conspiracy of paperwork university credentials, which ties into the fiat-currency-based system of the world. Peter Thiel offers Thiel Fellowships, where he pays young geniuses not to go to college. Vitalik Buterin, founder of Ethereum, got a Thiel Fellowship.

    1517 also invests in the artificial intelligence stuff that Gilder derided in the previous section, but let’s never mind that.

    The Universidad Francisco Marroquín in Guatemala is a university for Austrian and Chicago School economics. Gilder uses UFM as a launch pad for a rant about US academia, and the 1517 Fund’s “New 95” theses about how much Thiel hates the US university system. Again: they ask some good questions, but their premises are bizarre, and their answers are on crack.

    Fictional Evidence

    Gilder rambles about author Neal Stephenson, who he’s a massive fan of. The MacGuffin of Stephenson’s 1999 novel Cryptonomicon is a cryptographic currency backed by gold. Stephenson’s REAMDE (2011) is set in a Second Life-style virtual world whose currency is based on gold, and which includes something very like Bitcoin mining:

    Like gold standards through most of human history — look it up — T’Rain’s virtual gold standard is an engine of wealth. T’Rain prospers mightily. Even though its money is metafictional, it is in fact more stable than currencies in the real world of floating exchange rates and fiat money.

    Thus, fiction proves Austrian economics correct! Because reality certainly doesn’t — which is why Ludwig von Mises repudiated empirical testing of his monetary theories early on.

    Is There Anything Bitcoin Can’t Do?

    Gilder asserts that “Bitcoin has already fostered thousands of new apps and firms and jobs.” His example is cryptocurrency mining, which is notoriously light on labour requirements. Even as of 2022, the blockchain sector employed 18,000 software developers — or 0.07% of all developers.

    “Perhaps someone should be building an ark. Or perhaps bitcoin is our ark — a new monetary covenant containing the seeds of a new system of the world.” I wonder why the story of the ark sprang to his mind.

    One chapter is a dialogue, in which Gilder speaks to an imaginary Satoshi Nakamoto, Bitcoin’s pseudonymous creator, about how makework — Bitcoin mining — can possibly create value. “Think of this as a proposed screenplay for a historic docudrama on Satoshi. It is based entirely on recorded posts by Satoshi, interlarded with pleasantries and other expedients characteristic of historical fictions.”

    Gilder fingers cryptographer Nick Szabo as the most likely candidate for Bitcoin’s pseudonymous creator, Satoshi Nakamoto — “the answer to three sophisticated textual searches that found Szabo’s prose statistically more akin to Nakomoto’s than that of any other suspected Satoshista.”

    In the blockchain world, any amazing headline that would turn the world upside-down were it true is unlikely to be true. Gilder has referenced a CoinDesk article, which references research from Aston University’s Centre for Forensic Linguistics.

    I tracked this down to an Aston University press release. The press release does not link to any research outputs — the “study” was an exercise that Jack Grieve at Aston gave his final-year students, then wrote up as a splashy bit of university press-release-ware.

    The press release doesn’t make its case either: “Furthermore, the researchers found that the bitcoin whitepaper was drafted using Latex, an open-source document preparation system. Latex is also used by Szabo for all his publications.” LaTeX is used by most computer scientists anywhere for their publications — but the Bitcoin white paper was written in OpenOffice 2.4, not LaTeX.

    This press release is still routinely used by lazy writers to claim that Szabo is Satoshi, ’cos they heard that linguistic analysis says so. Gilder could have dived an inch below the surface on this remarkable claim, and just didn’t.

    Gilder then spends a chapter on Craig Wright, who — unlike Szabo — claims to be Satoshi. This is based on Andrew O’Hagan’s lengthy biographical piece on Wright, “The Satoshi Affair” for the London Review of Books, reprinted in his book The Secret Life: Three True Stories. This is largely a launch pad for how much better Vitalik Buterin’s ideas are than Wright’s.

    Blockstack

    We’re now into a list of blockchainy companies that Gilder is impressed with. This chapter introduces Muneeb Ali and his blockchain startup, Blockstack, whose pitch is a parallel internet where you own all your data, in some unspecified sense. Sounds great!

    Ali wants a two-layer network: “monolith, the predictable carriers of the blockchain underneath, and metaverse, the inventive and surprising operations of its users above.” So, Ethereum then — a blockchain platform, with applications running on top.

    Gilder recites the press release description of Blockstack and what it can do — i.e., might hypothetically do in the astounding future.

    Under its new name, Stacks, the system is being used as a platform for CityCoins — local currencies on a blockchain — which was started in the 2021 crypto bubble. MiamiCoin notably collapsed in price a few months after its 2021 launch, and the city only didn’t show a massive loss on the cryptocurrency because Stacks bailed them out on their losses.

    Brendan Eich and Brave

    Brendan Eich is famous in the technical world as one of the key visionaries behind the Netscape web browser, the Mozilla Foundation, and the Firefox web browser, and as the inventor of the JavaScript programming language.

    Eich is most famous in the non-technical world for his 2008 donation to Proposition 8, to make gay marriage against the California constitution. This donation came to light in 2012, and made international press at the time.

    Techies can get away with believing the most awful things, as long as they stay locked away in their basement — but Eich was made CEO of Mozilla in 2014, and somehow the board thought the donation against gay marriage wouldn’t immediately become 100% of the story.

    One programmer, whose own marriage had been directly messed up by Proposition 8, said he couldn’t in good conscience keep working on Firefox-related projects — and this started a worldwide boycott of Mozilla and Firefox. Eich refused to walk back his donation in any manner — though he did promise not to actively seek to violate California discrimination law in the course of his work at Mozilla, so that’s nice — and quit a few weeks later.

    Eich went off to found Brave, a new web browser that promises to solve the Internet advertising problem using Basic Attention Tokens, a token that promises a decentralised future for paying publishers that is only slightly 100% centralised in all functional respects.

    Gilder uses Eich mostly to launch into a paean to Initial Coin Offerings — specifically, in their rôle as unregistered penny stock offerings. Gilder approves of ICOs bypassing regulation, and doesn’t even mention how the area was suffused with fraud, nor the scarcity of ICOs that delivered on any of their promises. The ICO market collapsed after multiple SEC actions against these blatant securities frauds.

    Gilder also approves of Brave’s promise to combat Google’s advertising monopoly, by, er, replacing Google’s ads with Brave’s own ads.

    Goodbye Digital

    Dan Berninger’s internet phone startup Hello Digital is, or was, an enterprise so insignificant it isn’t in the first twenty companies returned by a Google search on “hello digital”. Gilder loves it.

    Berninger’s startup idea involved end-to-end non-neutral precedence for Hello Digital’s data. And the US’s net neutrality rules apparently preclude this. Berninger sued the FCC to make it possible to set up high-precedence private clearways for Hello Digital’s data on the public Internet.

    This turns out to be Berninger’s suit against the FCC to protest “net neutrality” — on which the Supreme Court denied certiorari in December 2018.

    Somehow, Skype and many other applications managed enormously successful voice-over-internet a decade previously on a data-neutral Internet. But these other systems “fail to take advantage of the spontaneous convergence of interests on particular websites. They provide no additional sources of revenue for Web pages with independent content. And they fail to add the magic of high-definition voice.” Apparently, all of this requires proprietary clearways for such data on the public network? Huge if true.

    Gilder brings up 5G mobile Internet. I think it’s supposed to be in Google’s interests? Therefore it must be bad. Nothing blockchainy here, this chapter’s just “Google bad, regulation bad”.

    The Empire Strikes Back

    Old world big money guys — Jamie Dimon, Warren Buffett, Charlie Munger, Paul Krugman — say Bitcoin is trash. Gilder maintains that this is good news for Bitcoin.

    Blockchain fans and critics — and nobody else — will have seen Kai Stinchcombe’s blog post of December 2017, “Ten years in, nobody has come up with a use for blockchain.” Stinchcombe points out that “after years of tireless effort and billions of dollars invested, nobody has actually come up with a use for the blockchain — besides currency speculation and illegal transactions.” It’s a good post, and you should read it.

    Gilder spends an entire chapter on this blog post. Some guy who wrote a blog post is a mid-level boss in this book.

    Gilder concedes that Stinchcombe’s points are hard to argue with. But Stinchcome merely being, you know, right, is irrelevant — because, astounding future!

    Stinchcombe writes from the womb of the incumbent financial establishment, which has recently crippled world capitalism with a ten-year global recession.

    One day a bitcoiner will come up with an argument that isn’t “but what about those other guys” — but today is not that day.

    At Last, We Escape

    We’ve made it to the last chapter. Gilder summarises how great the blockchain future will be:

    The revolution in cryptography has caused a great unbundling of the roles of money, promising to reverse the doldrums of the Google Age, which has been an epoch of bundling together, aggregating, all the digital assets of the world.

    Gilder confidently asserts ongoing present-day processes that are not, here in tawdry reality, happening:

    Companies are abandoning hierarchy and pursuing heterarchy because, as the Tapscotts put it, ‘blockchain technology offers a credible and effective means not only of cutting out intermediaries, but also of radically lowering transaction costs, turning firms into networks, distributing economic power, and enabling both wealth creation and a more prosperous future.’

    If you read Don and Alex Tapscott’s Blockchain Revolution (Random House, 2016), you’ll see that they too fail to demonstrate any of these claims in the existing present rather than the astounding future. Instead, the Tapscotts spend several hundred pages talking about how great it’s all going to be potentially, and only note blockchain’s severe technical limitations in passing at the very end of the book.

    We finish with some stirring blockchain triumphalism:

    Most important, the crypto movement led by bitcoin has reasserted the principle of scarcity, unveiling the fallacy of the prodigal free goods and free money of the Google era. Made obsolete will be all the lavish Google prodigies given away and Google mines and minuses promoted as ads, as well as Google Minds fantasizing superminds in conscious machines.

    Bitcoin promoters routinely tout “scarcity” as a key advantage of their Internet magic beans — ignoring, as Gilder consistently does, that anyone can create a whole new magical Internet money by cut’n’paste, and they do. Austrian economics advocates had noted that issue ever since it started happening with altcoins in the early 2010s.

    The Google era is coming to an end because Google tries to cheat the constraints of economic scarcity and security by making its goods and services free. Google’s Free World is a way of brazenly defying the centrality of time in economics and reaching beyond the wallets of its customers directly to seize their time.

    The only ways in which the Google era has been shown to be “coming to an end” is that their technologies are reaching the tops of their S-curves. This absolutely counts as an end point as Gilder describes technological innovation, and he might even be right that Google’s era is ending — but his claimed reasons have just been asserted, and not at all shown.

    By reestablishing the connections between computation, finance, and AI on the inexorable metrics of time and space, the great unbundling of the blockchain movement can restore economic reality.

    The word “can” is doing all the work there. It was nine years at this book’s publication, and thirteen years now, and there’s a visible lack of progress on this front.

    Everything will apparently decentralise naturally, because at last it can:

    Disaggregated will be all the GAFAM (Google, Apple, Facebook, Amazon, Microsoft conglomerates) — the clouds of concentrated computing and commerce.

    The trouble with this claim is that the whole crypto and blockchain middleman infrastructure is full of monopolies, rentiers and central points of failure — because centralisation is always more economically efficient than decentralisation.

    We see recentralisation over and over. Bitcoin mining recentralised by 2014. Ethereum mining was always even more centralised than Bitcoin mining, and almost all practical use of Ethereum has long been dependent on ConsenSys’ proprietary Infura network. “Decentralisation” has always been a legal excuse to say “can’t sue me, bro,” and not any sort of operational reality.

    Gilder concludes:

    The final test is whether the new regime serves the human mind and consciousness. The measure of all artificial intelligence is the human mind. It is low-power, distributed globally, low-latency in proximity to its environment, inexorably bounded in time and space, and creative in the image of its creator.

    Gilder wants you to know that he really, really hates the idea of artificial intelligence, for religious reasons.

    Epilogue: The New System of the World

    Gilder tries virtual reality goggles and likes them: “Virtual reality is the opposite of artificial intelligence, which tries to enhance learning by machines. Virtual reality asserts the primacy of mind over matter. It is founded on the singularity of human minds rather than a spurious singularity of machines.”

    There’s a bit of murky restating of his theses: “The opposite of memoryless Markov chains is blockchains.” I’m unconvinced this sentence is any less meaningless with the entire book as context.

    And Another Thing!

    “Some Terms of Art and Information for Life after Google” at the end of the book isn’t a glossary — it’s a section for idiosyncratic assertions without justification that Gilder couldn’t fit in elsewhere, e.g.:

    Chaitin’s Law: Gregory Chaitin, inventor of algorithmic information theory, ordains that you cannot use static, eternal, perfect mathematics to model dynamic creative life. Determinist math traps the mathematician in a mechanical process that cannot yield innovation or surprise, learning or life. You need to transcend the Newtonian mathematics of physics and adopt post-modern mathematics — the mathematics that follows Gödel (1931) and Turing (1936), the mathematics of creativity.

    There doesn’t appear to be such a thing as “Chaitin’s Law” — all Google hits on the term are quotes of Gilder’s book.

    Gilder also uses this section for claims that only make sense if you already buy into the jargon of goldbug economics that failed out in the real world:

    Economic growth: Learning tested by falsifiability or possible bankruptcy. This understanding of economic growth follows from Karl Popper’s insight that a scientific proposition must be framed in terms that are falsifiable or refutable. Government guarantees prevent learning and thus thwart economic growth.

    Summary

    Gilder is sharp as a tack in interviews. I can only hope to be that sharp when I’m seventy-nine. But Life After Google fails in important ways — ways that Regnery bothering to bless the book with an editorial axe might have remedied. Gilder should have known better, in so many directions, and so should Regnery.

    Gilder keeps making technological and mathematical claims based directly on his religious beliefs. This does none of his other ideas any favours.

    Gilder is sincere. (Apart from that time he was busted lying about intelligent design not being intended to promote religion.) I think Gilder really does believe that Gödel’s incompleteness theorems and Shannon’s information theory, as further developed by Chaitin, mathematically prove that intelligence requires the hand of God. He just doesn’t show it, and nor has anyone else — particularly not any of the names he drops.

    This book will not inform you as to the future of the blockchain. It’s worse than typical ill-informed blockchain advocacy text, because Gilder’s track record means we expect more of him. Gilder misses key points he has no excuse for missing.

    The book may be of use in its rôle as some of what’s informing the technically incoherent blockchain dreams of billionaires. But it’s a slog.

    Those interested in blockchain — for or against — aren’t going to get anything useful from this book. Bitcoin advocates may see new avenues and memes for evangelism. Gilder fans appear disappointed so far.

    _____

    David Gerard is a writer, technologist, and leading critic of bitcoin and blockchain. He is the author of Attack of the 50-Foot Blockchain: Bitcoin, Blockchain, Ethereum and Smart Contracts (2017) and Libra Shrugged: How Facebook Tried to Take Over the Money (2020), and blogs at https://davidgerard.co.uk/blockchain/.

    Back to the essay

  • Richard Hill —  The Curse of Concentration (Review of Cory Doctorow, How to Destroy Surveillance Capitalism)

    Richard Hill — The Curse of Concentration (Review of Cory Doctorow, How to Destroy Surveillance Capitalism)

    a review of Cory Doctorow, How to Destroy Surveillance Capitalism (OneZero, 2021)

    by Richard Hill

    ~

    This short online (free access) book provides a highly readable, inspiring, and powerful complement to Shoshana Zuboff’s The Age of Surveillance Capitalism (which the author qualifies and to some extent criticizes) and Timothy Wu’s The Curse of Bigness. It could be sub-titled (paraphrasing Maistre) “every nation gets the economic system it deserves,” in this case a symbiosis of corporate surveillance and state surveillance, in an economy dominated by, and potentially controlled by, a handful of companies. As documented elsewhere, that symbiosis is not an accident or coincidence. As the author puts the matter: “We need to take down Big Tech, and to do that, we need to start by correctly identifying the problem.”

    What follows is my analysis of the ideas of the book: it does not follow the order in which the ideas are presented in the book. In a nutshell, the author describes the source of the problem: an advertising-based revenue model that requires ever-increasing amounts of data, and thus ever-increasing concentration, coupled with weak anti-trust enforcement, and, worse, government actions that deliberately or inadvertently favor the power of dominant companies. The author describes (as have others) the negative effects this has had for privacy (which, as the author says, “is necessary for human progress”) and democracy; and proposes some solutions: strong antitrust, but also a relatively new idea – imposed interoperability. I will summarize these themes in the order given above.

    However, I will first summarize four important observations that underpin the issues outlined above. The first is that the Internet (and information and communications technologies (ICT) in general) is everything. As the author puts it: “The upshot of this is that our best hope of solving the big coordination problems — climate change, inequality, etc. — is with free, fair, and open tech.”

    The second is that data and information are increasingly important (see for example the Annex of this submission), and don’t fit well into existing private property regimes (see also here and here). And this in particular because of the way it is currently applied: “Big Tech has a funny relationship with information. When you’re generating information — anything from the location data streaming off your mobile device to the private messages you send to friends on a social network — it claims the rights to make unlimited use of that data. But when you have the audacity to turn the tables — to use a tool that blocks ads or slurps your waiting updates out of a social network and puts them in another app that lets you set your own priorities and suggestions or crawls their system to allow you to start a rival business — they claim that you’re stealing from them.”

    The third is that the time has come to reject the notion that ICTs, the Internet, and the companies that dominate those industries (“Big Tech”) are somehow different from everything else and should be treated differently: “I think tech is just another industry, albeit one that grew up in the absence of real monopoly constraints. It may have been first, but it isn’t the worst nor will it be the last.”

    The fourth is that network effects favor concentration: “A decentralization movement has tried to erode the dominance of Facebook and other Big Tech companies by fielding ‘indieweb’ alternatives – Mastodon as a Twitter alternative, Diaspora as a Facebook alternative, etc. – but these efforts have failed to attain any kind of liftoff. Fundamentally, each of these services is hamstrung by the same problem: every potential user for a Facebook or Twitter alternative has to convince all their friends to follow them to a decentralized web alternative in order to continue to realize the benefit of social media. For many of us, the only reason to have a Facebook account is that our friends have Facebook accounts, and the reason they have Facebook accounts is that we have Facebook accounts.”

    Turning to the main ideas of the book, the first is that the current business model is based on advertising: “ad-driven Big Tech’s customers are advertisers, and what companies like Google and Facebook sell is their ability to convince you to buy stuff. Big Tech’s product is persuasion. The services — social media, search engines, maps, messaging, and more — are delivery systems for persuasion. Rather than finding ways to bypass our rational faculties, surveillance capitalists like Mark Zuckerberg mostly do one or more of three things: segment the market, attempt to deceive it, and exploit dominant positions.”

    Regarding segmentation, the author states: “Facebook is tops for segmenting.” However, despite the fine targeting, its ads don’t always work: “The solution to Facebook’s ads only working one in a thousand times is for the company to try to increase how much time you spend on Facebook by a factor of a thousand. Rather than thinking of Facebook as a company that has figured out how to show you exactly the right ad in exactly the right way to get you to do what its advertisers want, think of it as a company that has figured out how to make you slog through an endless torrent of arguments even though they make you miserable, spending so much time on the site that it eventually shows you at least one ad that you respond to.”

    Thus it practices a form of deception: “So Facebook has to gin up traffic by sidetracking its own forums: every time Facebook’s algorithm injects controversial materials – inflammatory political articles, conspiracy theories, outrage stories – into a group, it can hijack that group’s nominal purpose with its desultory discussions and supercharge those discussions by turning them into bitter, unproductive arguments that drag on and on. Facebook is optimized for engagement, not happiness, and it turns out that automated systems are pretty good at figuring out things that people will get angry about.”

    The author describes how the current level of concentration is not due only to network effects and market forces. But also to “tactics that would have been prohibited under classical, pre-Ronald-Reagan antitrust enforcement standards.”

    This is compounded by the current copyright regime: “If our concern is that markets cease to function when consumers can no longer make choices, then copyright locks should concern us at least as much as influence campaigns. An influence campaign might nudge you to buy a certain brand of phone; but the copyright locks on that phone absolutely determine where you get it serviced, which apps can run on it, and when you have to throw it away rather than fixing it. Copyright locks are a double whammy: they create bad security decisions that can’t be freely investigated or discussed.”

    And it is due to inadequate government intervention: “Only the most extreme market ideologues think that markets can self-regulate without state oversight. Markets need watchdogs – regulators, lawmakers, and other elements of democratic control – to keep them honest. When these watchdogs sleep on the job, then markets cease to aggregate consumer choices because those choices are constrained by illegitimate and deceptive activities that companies are able to get away with because no one is holding them to account. Many of the harms of surveillance capitalism are the result of weak or nonexistent regulation. Those regulatory vacuums spring from the power of monopolists to resist stronger regulation and to tailor what regulation exists to permit their existing businesses.”

    For example as the author documents, the penalties for leaking data are negligible, and “even the most ambitious privacy rules, such as the EU General Data Protection Regulation, fall far short of capturing the negative externalities of the platforms’ negligent over-collection and over-retention, and what penalties they do provide are not aggressively pursued by regulators.”

    Yet we know that data will leak and can be used for identity theft with major consequences: “For example, attackers can use leaked username and password combinations to hijack whole fleets of commercial vehicles that have been fitted with anti-theft GPS trackers and immobilizers or to hijack baby monitors in order to terrorize toddlers with the audio tracks from pornography. Attackers use leaked data to trick phone companies into giving them your phone number, then they intercept SMS-based two-factor authentication codes in order to take over your email, bank account, and/or cryptocurrency wallets.”

    But we should know what to do: “Antitrust is a market society’s steering wheel, the control of first resort to keep would-be masters of the universe in their lanes. But Bork and his cohort ripped out our steering wheel 40 years ago. The car is still barreling along, and so we’re yanking as hard as we can on all the other controls in the car as well as desperately flapping the doors and rolling the windows up and down in the hopes that one of these other controls can be repurposed to let us choose where we’re heading before we careen off a cliff. It’s like a 1960s science-fiction plot come to life: people stuck in a ‘generation ship,’ plying its way across the stars, a ship once piloted by their ancestors; and now, after a great cataclysm, the ship’s crew have forgotten that they’re in a ship at all and no longer remember where the control room is. Adrift, the ship is racing toward its extinction, and unless we can seize the controls and execute emergency course correction, we’re all headed for a fiery death in the heart of a sun.”

    We know why nobody is in the control room: “The reason the world’s governments have been slow to create meaningful penalties for privacy breaches is that Big Tech’s concentration produces huge profits that can be used to lobby against those penalties – and Big Tech’s concentration means that the companies involved are able to arrive at a unified negotiating position that supercharges the lobbying.” Regarding lobbying, see for example here and here.

    But it’s worse than lack of control: not only have governments failed to enforce antitrust laws, they have actively favored mass collection of data, for their own purposes: “Any hard limits on surveillance capitalism would hamstring the state’s own surveillance capability. … At least some of the states’ unwillingness to take meaningful action to curb surveillance should be attributed to this symbiotic relationship. There is no mass state surveillance without mass commercial surveillance. … Monopolism is key to the project of mass state surveillance. … A concentrated tech sector that works with authorities is a much more powerful ally in the project of mass state surveillance than a fragmented one composed of smaller actors.” The author documents how this is the case for Amazon’s Ring.

    As the author says: “This mass surveillance project has been largely useless for fighting terrorism: the NSA can only point to a single minor success story in which it used its data collection program to foil an attempt by a U.S. resident to wire a few thousand dollars to an overseas terror group. It’s ineffective for much the same reason that commercial surveillance projects are largely ineffective at targeting advertising: The people who want to commit acts of terror, like people who want to buy a refrigerator, are extremely rare. If you’re trying to detect a phenomenon whose base rate is one in a million with an instrument whose accuracy is only 99%, then every true positive will come at the cost of 9,999 false positives.”

    And the story gets worse and worse: “In the absence of a competitive market, lawmakers have resorted to assigning expensive, state-like duties to Big Tech firms, such as automatically filtering user contributions for copyright infringement or terrorist and extremist content or detecting and preventing harassment in real time or controlling access to sexual material. These measures put a floor under how small we can make Big Tech because only the very largest companies can afford the humans and automated filters needed to perform these duties. But that’s not the only way in which making platforms responsible for policing their users undermines competition. A platform that is expected to police its users’ conduct must prevent many vital adversarial interoperability techniques lest these subvert its policing measures.”

    So we get into a vicious circle: “To the extent that we are willing to let Big Tech police itself – rather than making Big Tech small enough that users can leave bad platforms for better ones and small enough that a regulation that simply puts a platform out of business will not destroy billions of users’ access to their communities and data – we build the case that Big Tech should be able to block its competitors and make it easier for Big Tech to demand legal enforcement tools to ban and punish attempts at adversarial interoperability.”

    And into a long-term conundrum: “Much of what we’re doing to tame Big Tech instead of breaking up the big companies also forecloses on the possibility of breaking them up later. Yet governments confronting all of these problems all inevitably converge on the same solution: deputize the Big Tech giants to police their users and render them liable for their users’ bad actions. The drive to force Big Tech to use automated filters to block everything from copyright infringement to sex-trafficking to violent extremism means that tech companies will have to allocate hundreds of millions to run these compliance systems.” Such rules “are not just death warrants for small, upstart competitors that might challenge Big Tech’s dominance but who lack the deep pockets of established incumbents to pay for all these automated systems. Worse still, these rules put a floor under how small we can hope to make Big Tech.”

    The author documents how the curse of concentration is not restricted to ICTs and the Internet. For example: “the degradation of news products long precedes the advent of ad-supported online news. Long before newspapers were online, lax antitrust enforcement had opened the door for unprecedented waves of consolidation and roll-ups in newsrooms.” However, as others have documented in detail, the current Internet advertising model has weakened conventional media, with negative effects for democracy.

    Given the author’s focus on weak antitrust enforcement as the root of the problems, it’s not surprising that he sees antitrust as a solution: “Today, we’re at a crossroads where we’re trying to figure out if we want to fix the Big Tech companies that dominate our internet or if we want to fix the internet itself by unshackling it from Big Tech’s stranglehold. We can’t do both, so we have to choose. If we’re going to break Big Tech’s death grip on our digital lives, we’re going to have to fight monopolies. I believe we are on the verge of a new “ecology” moment dedicated to combating monopolies. After all, tech isn’t the only concentrated industry nor is it even the most concentrated of industries. You can find partisans for trustbusting in every sector of the economy. … First we take Facebook, then we take AT&T/WarnerMedia.”

    It may be hard to break up big tech, but it’s worth starting to work on it: “Getting people to care about monopolies will take technological interventions that help them to see what a world free from Big Tech might look like. … Getting people to care about monopolies will take technological interventions that help them to see what a world free from Big Tech might look like.”

    In particular, the author stresses a relatively new idea: adversarial compatibility, that is, forced interoperability: “adversarial compatibility reverses the competitive advantage: If you were allowed to compete with Facebook by providing a tool that imported all your users’ waiting Facebook messages into an environment that competed on lines that Facebook couldn’t cross, like eliminating surveillance and ads, then Facebook would be at a huge disadvantage. It would have assembled all possible ex-Facebook users into a single, easy-to-find service; it would have educated them on how a Facebook-like service worked and what its potential benefits were; and it would have provided an easy means for disgruntled Facebook users to tell their friends where they might expect better treatment. Adversarial interoperability was once the norm and a key contributor to the dynamic, vibrant tech scene, but now it is stuck behind a thicket of laws and regulations that add legal risks to the tried-and-true tactics of adversarial interoperability. New rules and new interpretations of existing rules mean that a would-be adversarial interoperator needs to steer clear of claims under copyright, terms of service, trade secrecy, tortious interference, and patent.”

    In conclusion: “Ultimately, we can try to fix Big Tech by making it responsible for bad acts by its users, or we can try to fix the internet by cutting Big Tech down to size. But we can’t do both. To replace today’s giant products with pluralistic protocols, we need to clear the legal thicket that prevents adversarial interoperability so that tomorrow’s nimble, personal, small-scale products can federate themselves with giants like Facebook, allowing the users who’ve left to continue to communicate with users who haven’t left yet, reaching tendrils over Facebook’s garden wall that Facebook’s trapped users can use to scale the walls and escape to the global, open web.”

    In this context, it is important to stress the counter-productive effects of e-commerce proposals being negotiated, in secret, in trade negotiations (see also here and here). The author does not mention them, perhaps because they are sufficiently secret that he is not aware of them.

    _____

    Richard Hill is President of the Association for Proper internet Governance, and was formerly a senior official at the International Telecommunication Union (ITU). He has been involved in internet governance issues since the inception of the internet and is now an activist in that area, speaking, publishing, and contributing to discussions in various forums. Among other works he is the author of The New International Telecommunication Regulations and the Internet: A Commentary and Legislative History (Springer, 2014). He writes frequently about internet governance issues for The b2o Review Digital Studies magazine.

    Back to the essay

  • Zachary Loeb — Hashtags Lean to the Right (Review of Schradie, The Revolution that Wasn’t: How Digital Activism Favors Conservatives)

    Zachary Loeb — Hashtags Lean to the Right (Review of Schradie, The Revolution that Wasn’t: How Digital Activism Favors Conservatives)

    a review of Jen Schradie,The Revolution that Wasn’t: How Digital Activism Favors Conservatives (Harvard University Press, 2019)

    by Zachary Loeb

    ~

    Despite the oft-repeated, and rather questionable, trope that social media is biased against conservatives; and beyond the attention that has been lavished on tech-savvy left-aligned movements (such as Occupy!) in recent years—this does not necessarily mean that social media is of greater use to the left. It may be quite the opposite. This is a topic that documentary filmmaker, activist and sociologist Jen Schradie explores in depth in her excellent and important book The Revolution That Wasn’t: How Digital Activism Favors Conservatism. Engaging with the political objectives of activists on the left and the right, Schradie’s book considers the political values that are reified in the technical systems themselves and the ways in which those values more closely align with the aims of conservative groups. Furthermore, Schradie emphasizes the socio-economic factors that allow particular groups to successfully harness high-tech tools, thereby demonstrating how digital activism reinforces the power of those who are already enjoying a fair amount of power. Rather than suggesting that high-tech tools have somehow been stolen from the left by the right, The Revolution That Wasn’t argues that these were not the left’s tools in the first place.

    The background against which Schradie’s analysis unfolds is the state of North Carolina in the years after 2011. Generally seen as a “red state,” North Carolina had flipped blue for Barack Obama in 2008, leading to the state being increasingly seen as a battleground. Even though the state was starting to take on a purplish color, North Carolina was still home to a deeply entrenched conservativism that was reflected (and still is reflected) in many aspects of the state’s laws, and in the legacy of racist segregation that is still felt in the state. Though the Occupy! movement lingers in the background of Schradie’s account, her focus is on struggles in North Carolina around unionization, the rapid growth of the Tea Party, and the emergence of the “Moral Monday” movement which inspired protests across the state (starting in 2013). While many considerations of digital activism have focused on hip young activists festooned with piercings, hacker skills, and copies of The Coming Insurrection—the central characters of Schradie’s book are members of the labor movement, campus activists, Tea Party members, Preppers, people associated with “Patriot” groups, as well as a smattering of paid organizers working for large organizations. And though Schradie is closely attuned to the impact that financial resources have within activist movements, she pushes back against the “astroturf” accusation that is sometimes aimed at right-wing activists, arguing that the groups she observed on both the right and the left reflected genuine populist movements.

    There is a great deal of specificity to Schradie’s study, and many of the things that Schradie observes are particular to the context of North Carolina, but the broader lessons regarding political ideology and activism are widely applicable. In looking at the political landscape in North Carolina, Schradie carefully observes the various groups that were active around the unionization issue, and pays close attention to the ways in which digital tools were used in these groups’ activism. The levels of digital savviness vary across the political groups, and most of the groups demonstrate at least some engagement with digital tools; however, some groups embraced the affordances of digital tools to a much greater extent than others. And where Schradie’s book makes its essential intervention is not simply in showing these differing levels of digital use, but in explaining why. For one of the core observations of Schradie’s account of North Carolina, is that it was not the left-leaning groups, but the right-leaning groups who were able to make the most out of digital tools. It’s a point which, to a large degree, runs counter to general narratives on the left (and possibly also the right) about digital activism.

    In considering digital activism in North Carolina, Schradie highlights the “uneven digital terrain that largely abandoned left working-class groups while placing right-wing reformist groups at the forefront of digital activism” (Schradie, 7). In mapping out this terrain, Schradie emphasizes three factors that were pivotal in tilting this ground, namely class, organization, and ideology. Taken independently of one another, each of these three factors provides valuable insight into the challenges posed by digital activism, but taken together they allow for a clear assessment of the ways that digital activism (and digital tools themselves) favor conservatives. It is an analysis that requires some careful wading into definitions (the different ways that right and left groups define things like “freedom” really matters), but these three factors make it clear that “rather than offering a quick technological fix to repair our broken democracy, the advent of digital activism has simply ended up reproducing, and in some cases, intensifying, preexisting power imbalances” (Schradie, 7).

    Considering that the core campaign revolves around unionization, it should not particularly be a surprise that class is a major issue in Schradie’s analysis. Digital evangelists have frequently suggested that high-tech tools allow for the swift breaking down of class barriers by providing powerful tools (and informational access) to more and more people—but the North Carolinian case demonstrates the ways in which class endures. Much of this has to do with the persistence of the digital divide, something which can easily be overlooked by onlookers (and academics) who have grown accustomed to digital tools. Schradie points to the presence of “four constraints” that have a pivotal impact on the class aspect of digital activism: “Access, Skills, Empowerment, and Time” (or ASETs for short; Schradie, 61). “Access” points to the most widely understood part of the digital divide, the way in which some people simply do not have a reliable and routine way of getting ahold of and/or using digital tools—it’s hard to build a strong movement online, when many of your members have trouble getting online. This in turn reverberates with “Skills,” as those who have less access to digital tools often lack the know-how that develops from using those tools—not everyone knows how to craft a Facebook post, or how best to make use of hashtags on Twitter. While digital tools have often been praised precisely for the ways in which they empower users, this empowerment is often not felt by those lacking access and skills, leading many individuals from working-class groups to see “digital activism as something ‘other people’ do” (Schradie, 64). And though it may be the easiest factor to overlook, engaging in digital activism requires Time, something which is harder to come by for individuals working multiple jobs (especially of the sort with bosses that do not want to see any workers using phones at work).

    When placed against the class backgrounds of the various activist groups considered in the book, the ASETs framework clearly sets up a situation in which conservative activists had the advantage. What Schradie found was “not just a question of the old catching up with the young, but of the poor never being able to catch up with the rich” (Schradie, 79), as the more financially secure conservative activists simply had more ASETs than the working-class activists on the left. And though the right-wing activists skewed older than the left-wing activists, they proved quite capable of learning to use new high-tech tools. Furthermore, an extremely important aspect here is that the working-class activists (given their economic precariousness) had more to lose from engaging in digital activism—the conservative retiree will be much less worried about losing their job, than the garbage truck driver interested in unionizing.

    Though the ASETs echo throughout the entirety of Schradie’s account, “Time” plays an essential connective role in the shift from matters of class to matters of organization. Contrary to the way in which the Internet has often been praised for invigorating horizontal movements (such as Occupy!), the activist groups in North Carolina attest to the ways in which old bureaucratic and infrastructural tools are still essential. Or, to put it another way, if the various ASETs are viewed as resources, then having a sufficient quantity of all four is key to maintaining an organization. This meant that groups with hierarchical structures, clear divisions of labor, and more staff (be these committed volunteers or paid workers) were better equipped to exploit the affordances of digital tools.

    Importantly, this was not entirely one-sided. Tea Party groups were able to tap into funding and training from larger networks of right-wing organizations, but national unions and civil rights organizations were also able to support left-wing groups. In terms of organization, the overwhelming bias is less pronounced in terms of a right/left dichotomy and more a reflection of a clash between reformist/radical groups. When it came to organization the bias was towards “reformist” groups (right and left) that replicated present power structures and worked within the already existing social systems; the groups that lose out here tend to be the ones that more fully eschew hierarchy (an example of this being student activists). Though digital democracy can still be “participatory, pluralist, and personalized,” Schradie’s analysis demonstrates how “the internet over the long-term favored centralized activism over connective action; hierarchy over horizontalism; bureaucratic positions over networked persons” (Schradie, 134). Thus, the importance of organization, demonstrates not how digital tools allowed for a new “participatory democracy” but rather how standard hierarchical techniques continue to be key for groups wanting to participate in democracy.

    Beyond class and organization (insofar as it is truly possible to get past either), the ideology of activists on the left and activists on the right has a profound influence on how these groups use digital tools. For it isn’t the case that the left and the right try to use the Internet for the exact same purpose. Schradie captures this as a difference between pursuing fairness (the left), and freedom (the right)—this largely consisted of left-wing groups seeking a “fairer” allocation of societal power, while those on the right defined “freedom” largely in terms of protecting the allocation of power already enjoyed by these conservative activists. Believing that they had been shut out by the “liberal media,” many conservatives flocked to and celebrated digital tools as a way of getting out “the Truth,” their “digital practices were unequivocally focused on information” (Schradie, 167). As a way of disseminating information, to other people already in possession of ASETs, digital means provided right-wing activists with powerful tools for getting around traditional media gatekeepers. While activists on the left certainly used digital tools for spreading information, their use of the internet tended to be focused more heavily on organizing: on bringing people together in order to advocate for change. Further complicating things for the left is that Schradie found there to be less unity amongst leftist groups in contrast to the relative hegemony found on the right. Comparing the intersection of ideological agendas with digital tools, Schradie is forthright in stating, “the internet was simply more useful to conservatives who could broadcast propaganda and less effective for progressives who wanted to organize people” (Schradie, 223).

    Much of the way that digital activism has been discussed by the press, and by academics, has advanced a narrative that frames digital activism as enhancing participatory democracy. In these standard tales (which often ground themselves in accounts of the origins of the internet that place heavy emphasis on the counterculture), the heroes of digital activism are usually young leftists. Yet, as Schradie argues, “to fully explain digital activism in this era, we need to take off our digital-tinted glasses” (Schradie, 259). Removing such glasses reveals the way in which they have too often focused attention on the spectacular efforts of some movements, while overlooking the steady work of others—thus, driving more attention to groups like Occupy!, than to the buildup of right-wing groups. And looking at the state of digital activism through clearer eyes reveals many aspects of digital life that are obvious, yet which are continually forgotten, such as the fact that “the internet is a tool that favors people with more money and power, often leaving those without resources in the dust” (Schradie, 269). The example of North Carolina shows that groups on the left and the right are all making use of the Internet, but it is not just a matter of some groups having more ASETs, it is also the fact that the high-tech tools of digital activism favor certain types of values and aims better than others. And, as Schradie argues throughout her book, those tend to be the causes and aims of conservative activists.

    Despite the revolutionary veneer with which the Internet has frequently been painted, “the reality is that throughout history, communications tools that seemed to offer new voices are eventually owned or controlled by those with more resources. They eventually are used to consolidate power, rather than to smash it into pieces and redistribute it” (Schradie, 25). The question with which activists, particularly those on the left, need to wrestle is not just whether or not the Internet is living up to its emancipatory potential—but whether or not it ever really had that potential in the first place.

    * * *

    In an iconic photograph from 1948, a jubilant Harry S. Truman holds aloft a copy of The Chicago Daily Tribune emblazoned with the headline “Dewey Beats Truman.” Despite the polls having predicted that Dewey would be victorious, when the votes were counted Truman had been sent back to the White House and the Democrats took control of the House and the Senate. An echo of this moment occurred some sixty-eight years later, though there was no comparable photo of Donald Trump smirking while holding up a newspaper carrying the headline “Clinton Beats Trump.” In the aftermath of Trump’s victory pundits ate crow in a daze, pollsters sought to defend their own credibility by emphasizing that their models had never actually said that there was no chance of a Trump victory, and even some in Trump’s circle seemed stunned by his victory.

    As shock turned to resignation, the search for explanations and scapegoats began in earnest. Democrats blamed Russian hackers, voter suppression, the media’s obsession with Trump, left-wing voters who didn’t fall in line, and James Comey; while Republicans claimed that the shock was simply proof that the media was out of touch with the voters. Yet, Republicans and Democrats seemed to at least agree on one thing: to understand Trump’s victory, it was necessary to think about social media. Granted, Republicans and Democrats were divided on whether this was a matter of giving credit or assigning blame. On the one hand, Trump had been able to effectively use Twitter to directly engage with his fan base; on the other hand, platforms like Facebook had been flooded with disinformation that spread rapidly through the online ecosystem. It did not take long for representatives, including executives, from the various social media companies to find themselves called before Congress, where these figures were alternately grilled about supposed bias against conservatives on their platforms, and taken to task for how their platforms had been so easily manipulated into helping Trump win election.

    If the tech companies were only finding themselves summoned before Congress it would have been bad enough, but they were also facing frustrated employees, as well as disgruntled users, and the word “techlash” was being used to describe the wave of mounting frustration with these companies. Certainly, unease with the power and influence of the tech titans had been growing for years. Cambridge Analytica was hardly the first tech scandal. Yet much of that earlier displeasure was tempered by an overwhelmingly optimistic attitude towards the tech giants, as though the industry’s problematic excesses were indicative of growing pains as opposed to being signs of intrinsic anti-democratic (small d) biases. There were many critics of the tech industry before the arrival of the “techlash,” but they were liable to find themselves denounced as Luddites if they failed to show sufficient fealty to the tech companies. From company CEOs to an adoring tech press to numerous technophilic academics, in the years prior to the 2016 election smart phones and social media were hailed for their liberating and democratizing potential. Videos shot on smart phone cameras and uploaded to YouTube, political gatherings organized on Facebook, activist campaigns turning into mass movements thanks to hashtags—all had been treated as proof positive that high tech tools were breaking apart the old hierarchies and ushering in a new era of high-tech horizontal politics.

    Alas, the 2016 election was the rock against which many of these high-tech hopes crashed.

    And though there are many strands contributing to the “techlash,” it is hard to make sense of this reaction without seeing it in relation to Trump’s victory. Users of Facebook and Twitter had been frustrated with those platforms before, but at the core of the “techlash” has been a certain sense of betrayal. How could Facebook have done this? Why was Twitter allowing Trump to break its own terms of service on a daily basis? Why was Microsoft partnering with ICE? How come YouTube’s recommendation algorithms always seemed to suggest far-right content?

    To state it plainly: it wasn’t supposed to be this way.

    But what if it was? And what if it had always been?

    In a 1985 interview with MIT’s newspaper The Tech, the computer scientist and social critic, Joseph Weizenbaum had some blunt words about the ways in which computers had impacted society, telling his interviewer: “I think the computer has from the beginning been a fundamentally conservative force. It has made possible the saving of institutions pretty much as they were, which otherwise might have had to be changed” (ben-Aaron, 1985). This was not a new position for Weizenbaum; he had largely articulated the same idea in his 1976 book Computer Power and Human Reason, wherein he had pushed back at those he termed the “artificial intelligentsia” and the other digital evangelists of his day. Articulating his thoughts to the interviewer from The Tech, Weizenbaum raised further concerns about the close links between the military and computer work at MIT, and cast doubt on the real usefulness of computers for society—couching his dire fears in the social critic’s common defense “I hope I’m wrong” (ben-Aaron, 1985). Alas, as the decades passed, Weizenbaum unfortunately felt he had been right. When he turned his critical gaze to the internet in a 2006 interview, he decried the “flood of disinformation,” while noting “it just isn’t true that everyone has access to the so-called Information age” (Weizenbaum and Wendt 2015, 44-45).

    Weizenbaum was hardly the only critic to have looked askance at the growing importance that was placed on computers during the 20th century. Indeed, Weizenbaum’s work was heavily influenced by that of his friend and fellow social critic Lewis Mumford who had gone so far as to identify the computer as the prototypical example of “authoritarian” technology (even suggesting that it was the rebirth of the “sun god” in technical form). Yet, societies that are in love with their high-tech gadgets, and which often consider technological progress and societal progress to be synonymous, generally have rather little time for such critics. When times are good, such social critics are safely quarantined to the fringes of academic discourse (and completely ignored within broader society), but when things get rocky they have their woebegone revenge by being proven right.

    All of which is to say, that thinkers like Weizenbaum and Mumford would almost certainly agree with The Revolution That Wasn’t. However, they would probably not be surprised by it. After all, The Revolution That Wasn’t is a confirmation that we are today living in the world about which previous generations of critics warned. Indeed, if there is one criticism to be made of Schradie’s work, it is that the book could have benefited by more deeply grounding its analysis in the longstanding critiques of technology that have been made by the likes of Weizenbaum, Mumford, and quite a few other scholars and critics. Jo Freeman and Langdon Winner are both mentioned, but it’s important to emphasize that many social critics warned about the conservative biases of computers long before Trump got a Twitter account, and long before Mark Zuckerberg was born. Our widespread refusal to heed these warnings, and the tendency to mock those issuing these warnings as Luddites, technophobes, and prophets of doom, is arguably a fundamental cause of the present state of affairs which Schradie so aptly describes.

    With The Revolution That Wasn’t, Jen Schradie has made a vital intervention in current discussions (inside the academy and amongst activists) regarding the politics of social media. Eschewing a polemical tone, which refuses to sing the praises of social media or to condemn it outright, Schradie provides a measured assessment that addresses the way in which social media is actually being used by activists of varying political stripes—with a careful emphasis on the successes these groups have enjoyed. There is a certain extent to which Schradie’s argument, and some of her conclusions, represent a jarring contrast to much of the literature that has framed social media as being a particular boon to left-wing activists. Yet, Schradie’s book highlights with disarming detail the ways in which a desire (on the part of left-leaning individuals) to believe that the Internet favors people on the left has been a sort of ideological blinder that has prevented them from fully coming to terms with how the Internet has re-entrenched the dominant powers in society.

    What Schradie’s book reveals is that “the internet did not wipe out barriers to activism; it just reflected them, and even at times exacerbated existing power differences” (Schradie, 245). Schradie allows the activists on both sides to speak in their own words, taking seriously their claims about what they were doing. And while the book is closely anchored in the context of a particular struggle in North Carolina, the analytical tools that Schradie develops (such as the ASET framework, and the tripartite emphasis on class/organization/ideology) allow Schradie’s conclusions to be mapped onto other social movements and struggles.

    While the research that went into The Revolution That Wasn’t clearly predates the election of Donald Trump, and though he is not a main character in the book, the 45th president lurks in the background of the book (or perhaps just in the reader’s mind). Had Trump lost the election, every part of Schradie’s analysis would be just as accurate and biting; however, those seeking to defend social media tools as inherently liberating would probably not be finding themselves on the defensive today (a position that most of them were never expecting themselves to be in). Yet, what makes Schradie’s account so important, is that the book is not simply concerned with whether or not particular movements used digital tools; rather, Schradie is able to step back to consider the degree to which the use of social media tools has been effective in fulfilling the political aims of the various groups. Yes, Occupy! might have made canny use of hashtags (and, if one wants to be generous one can say that it helped inject the discussion of inequality back into American politics), but nearly ten years later the wealth gap is continuing to grow. For all of the hopeful luster that has often surrounded digital tools, Schradie’s book shows the way in which these tools have just placed a fresh coat of paint on the same old status quo—even if this coat of paint is shiny and silvery.

    As the technophiles scramble to rescue the belief that the Internet is inherently democratizing, The Revolution That Wasn’t takes its place amongst a growing body of critical works that are willing to challenge the utopian aura that has been built up around the Internet. While it must be emphasized, as the earlier allusion to Weizenbaum shows, that there have been thinkers criticizing computers and the Internet for as long as there have been computers and the Internet—of late there has been an important expansion of such critical works. There is not the space here to offer an exhaustive account of all of the critical scholarship being conducted, but it is worthwhile to mention some exemplary recent works. Safiya Umoja Noble’s Algorithms of Oppression provides an essential examination of the ways in which societal biases, particularly about race and gender, are reinforced by search engines. The recent work on the “New Jim Code” by Ruha Benjamin as seen in such works as Race After Technology, and the Captivating Technology volume she edited, foreground the ways in which technological systems reinforce white supremacy. The work of Virginia Eubanks, both Digital Dead End (whose concerns make it likely the most important precursor to Schradie’s book) and her more recent Automating Inequality, discuss the ways in which high tech systems are used to police and control the impoverished. Examinations of e-waste (such as Jennifer Gabry’s Digital Rubbish) and infrastructure (such as Nicole Starosielski’s The Undersea Network, and Tung-Hui Hu’s A Prehistory of the Cloud) point to the ways in which colonial legacies are still very much alive in today’s high tech systems. While the internationalist sheen that is often ascribed to digital media is carefully deconstructed in works like Ramesh Srnivasan’s Whose Global Village? Works like Meredith Broussard’s Artificial Unintelligence and Shoshana Zuboff’s Age of Surveillance Capitalism raise deep questions about the overall politics of digital technology. And, with its deep analysis of the way that race and class are intertwined with digital access and digital activism, The Revolution That Wasn’t deserves a place amongst such works.

    What much of this recent scholarship has emphasized is that technology is never neutral. And while this may be a point which is accepted wisdom amongst scholars in these relevant fields, these works (and scholars) have taken great care to make this point to the broader public. It is not just that tools can be used for good, or for bad—but that tools have particular biases built into them. Pretending those biases aren’t there, doesn’t make them go away. Kranzberg’s Laws asserted that technology is not good, or bad, or neutral—but when one moves away from talking about technology to particular technologies, it is quite important to be able to say that certain technologies may actually be bad. This is a particular problem when one wants to consider things like activism. There has always been something asinine to the tactic of mocking activists pushing for social change while using devices created by massive multinational corporations (as the well-known comic by Matt Bors notes); however, the reason that this mockery is so often repeated is that it has a kernel of troubling truth to it. After all, there is something a little discomforting about using a device running on minerals mined in horrendous conditions, which was assembled in a sweatshop, and which will one day go on to be poisonous e-waste—for organizing a union drive.

    Matt Bors, detail from "Mister Gotcha" (2016)
    Matt Bors, detail from “Mister Gotcha” (2016)

    Or, to put it slightly differently, when we think about the democratizing potential of technology, to what extent are we privileging those who get to use (and discard) these devices, over those whose labor goes into producing them? That activists may believe that they are using a given device or platform for “good” purposes, does not mean that the device itself is actually good. And this is a tension Schradie gets at when she observes that “instead of a revolutionary participatory tool, the internet just happened to be the dominant communication tool at the time of my research and simply became normalized into the groups’ organizing repertoire” (Schradie, 133). Of course, activists (of varying political stripes) are making use of the communication tools that are available to them and widely used in society. But just because activists use a particular communication tool, doesn’t mean that they should fall in love with it.

    This is not in any way to call activists using these tools hypocritical, but it is a further reminder of the ways in which high-tech tools inscribe their users within the very systems they may be seeking to change. And this is certainly a problem that Schradie’s book raises, as she notes that one of the reasons conservative values get a bump from digital tools is that these conservatives are generally already the happy beneficiaries of the systems that created these tools. Scholarship on digital activism has considered the ideologies of various technologically engaged groups before, and there have been many strong works produced on hackers and open source activists, but often the emphasis has been placed on the ideologies of the activists without enough consideration being given to the ways in which the technical tools themselves embody certain political values (an excellent example of a work that truly considers activists picking their tools based on the values of those tools is Christina Dunbar-Hester’s Low Power to the People). Schradie’s focus on ideology is particularly useful here, as it helps to draw attention to the way in which various groups’ ideologies map onto or come into conflict with the ideologies that these technical systems already embody. What makes Schradie’s book so important is not just its account of how activists use technologies, but its recognition that these technologies are also inherently political.

    Yet the thorny question that undergirds much of the present discourse around computers and digital tools remains “what do we do if, instead of democratizing society, these tools are doing just the opposite?” And this question just becomes tougher the further down you go: if the problem is just Facebook, you can pose solutions such as regulation and breaking it up; however, if the problem is that digital society rests on a foundation of violent extraction, insatiable lust for energy, and rampant surveillance, solutions are less easily available. People have become so accustomed to thinking that these technologies are fundamentally democratic that they are loathe to believe analyses, such as Mumford’s, that they are instead authoritarian by nature.

    While reports of a “techlash” may be overstated, it is clear that at the present moment it is permissible to be a bit more critical of particular technologies and the tech giants. However, there is still a fair amount of hesitance about going so far as to suggest that maybe there’s just something inherently problematic about computers and the Internet. After decades of being told that the Internet is emancipatory, many people remain committed to this belief, even in the face of mounting evidence to the contrary. Trump’s election may have placed some significant cracks in the dominant faith in these digital devices, but suggesting that the problem goes deeper than Facebook or Amazon is still treated as heretical. Nevertheless, it is a matter that is becoming harder and harder to avoid. For it is increasingly clear that it is not a matter of whether or not these devices can be used for this or that political cause, but of the overarching politics of these devices themselves. It is not just that digital activism favors conservatism, but as Weizenbaum observed decades ago, that “the computer has from the beginning been a fundamentally conservative force.”

    With The Revolution That Wasn’t, Jen Schradie has written an essential contribution to current conversations around not only the use of technology for political purposes, but also about the politics of technology. As an account of left-wing and right-wing activists, Schradie’s book is a worthwhile consideration of the ways that various activists use these tools. Yet where this, altogether excellent, work really stands out is in the ways in which it highlights the politics that are embedded and reified by high-tech tools. Schradie is certainly not suggesting that activists abandon their devices—in so far as these are the dominant communication tools at present, activists have little choice but to use them—but this book puts forth a nuanced argument about the need for activists to really think critically about whether they’re using digital tools, or whether the digital tools are using them.

    _____

    Zachary Loeb earned his MSIS from the University of Texas at Austin, an MA from the Media, Culture, and Communications department at NYU, and is currently a PhD candidate in the History and Sociology of Science department at the University of Pennsylvania. Loeb works at the intersection of the history of technology and disaster studies, and his research focusses on the ways that complex technological systems amplify risk, as well as the history of technological doom-saying. He is working on a dissertation on Y2K. Loeb writes at the blog Librarianshipwreck, and is a frequent contributor to The b2 Review Digital Studies section.

    Back to the essay

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    Works Cited

    • ben-Aaron, Diana. 1985. “Weizenbaum Examines Computers and Society.” The Tech (Apr 9).
    • Weizenbaum, Joseph, and Gunna Wendt. 2015. Islands in the Cyberstream: Seeking Havens of Reason in a Programmed Society. Duluth, MN: Litwin Books.
  • Rob Hunter — The Digital Turn and the Ethical Turn: Depoliticization in Digital Practice and Political Theory

    Rob Hunter — The Digital Turn and the Ethical Turn: Depoliticization in Digital Practice and Political Theory

    Rob Hunter [*]

    Introduction

    In official, commercial, and activist discourses, networked computing is frequently heralded for establishing a field of inclusive, participatory political activity. It is taken to be the latest iteration of, or a standard-bearer for, “technology”: an autonomous force penetrating the social world, an independent variable whose magnitude may not directly be modified and whose effects are or ought to be welcomed. The internet, its component techniques and infrastructures, and related modalities of computing are often supposed to be accelerating and multiplying various aspects of the ideological lynchpin of the neoliberal order: individual sovereignty.[1] The Internet is heralded as the dawn of a new communication age, one in which democracy is to be reinvigorated and expanded through the publicity and interconnectivity made possible by new forms of networked relations among informed consumers.

    Composed of consumer choice, intersubjective rationality, and the activity of the autonomous subject, such sovereignty also forms the basis of many strands of contemporary ethical thought—which has increasingly come to displace rival conceptions of political thought in sectors of the Anglophone academy. In this essay, I focus on two turns and their parallels—the turn to the digital in commerce, politics, and society; and the turn to the ethical in professional and elite thought about how such domains should be ordered. I approach the digital turn through the case of the free and open source software movements. These movements are concerned with sustaining a publicly-available information commons through certain technical and juridical approaches to software development and deployment. The community of free, libre, and open source (FLOSS) developers and maintainers is one of the more consequential spaces in which actors frequently endorse the claim that the digital turn precipitates an unleashing of democratic potential in the form of improved deliberation, equalized access to information, networks, and institutions, and a leveling of hierarchies of authority. I approach the ethical turn through an examination of the political theory of democracy, particularly as it has developed in the work of theorists of deliberative democracy like Jürgen Habermas and John Rawls.

    By FLOSS I refer, more or less interchangeably, to software that is licensed such that it may be freely used, modified, and distributed, and whose source code is similarly available so that it may be inspected or changed by anyone (Free Software Foundation 2018). (It stands in contradistinction to “closed source” or proprietary software that is typically produced and sold by large commercial firms.) The agglomeration of “free,” “libre,” and “open source” reflects the multiple ideological geneses of non-proprietary software. Briefly, “free” or “libre” software is so named because, following Stallman’s (2015) original injunction in 1985, the conditions of its distribution forbid rendering the code (or derivative code) proprietary for the sake of maximizing the freedom of downstream coders and users to do as they see fit with it. The signifier “free” primarily connotes the absence of restrictions on use, modification, and distribution, rather than considerations of cost or exchange value. Of crucial importance to the free software movement was the adoption of “copyleft” licensure of software, in which copies of software are freely distributed with the restriction that subsequent users and distributors not impose additional restrictions upon subsequent distribution. As Stallman has noted, copyleft is built on a deliberate contradiction of copyright: “Copyleft uses copyright law, but flips it over to serve the opposite of its usual purpose: instead of a means of privatizing software, it becomes a means of keeping software free” (Stallman 2002, 22). Avowed members of the free software movement also conceive of free software’s importance not just in technical terms but in moral terms as well. For them, the free software ecosystem is a moral-pedagogical space in which values are reproduced and developers’ skills are fostered through unfettered access to free software (Kelty 2008).

    “Open source” software derives its name from a push—years after Stallman’s cri de coeur—that stressed non-proprietary software’s potential in the business world. Advocates of the open source framing downplayed free software’s origins in the libertarian-individualist ethos of the early free software movement. They discarded its rhetorics of individual freedom in favor of the invocation of “innovation,” “openness,” and neoliberal subjectivity. Toward the end of the twentieth century, open source activists “partially codified this philosophical frame by establishing a clear priority for pragmatic technical achievement over ideology (which was more central to the culture of the Free Software Foundation)” (Weber 2005, 165). In the current moment, antagonisms between proponents of the respective terminologies are comparatively muted. In many FLOSS developer spaces, the most commonly-avowed view is that the practical upshot of the differences in emphasis between “free” and “open source” is unimportant: the typical user or producer doesn’t care, and the immediate social consequences of the distinction are close to nil. (It is noteworthy that this framing is fully compatible with the self-consciously technicist, pragmatic framing of the open source movement, less so with the ideological commitments of the free software movement. Whether or not it is the case at the micro level that free software and open source software retain meaningfully different political valences is beyond the scope of this essay, although it is possible that voices welcoming an elision of “free” and “open source” do protest too much.)

    FLOSS is situated at the intersection of several trends and tendencies. It is a body of technical practice (hacking or coding); it is also a political-ethical formation. FLOSS is an integral component of capitalist software development—but it is also a hobbyist’s toy and a creator’s instrument (Kelty 2008), a would-be entrepreneur’s tool (Weber 2005), and an increasingly essential piece of academic kit (see, e.g., Coleman 2012). A generation of scholarship in anthropology, cultural studies, history, sociology, and other related fields has established that FLOSS is an appropriate object of study not only because its participants are typically invested in the internet-as-emancipatory-technology narrative, but also because free and open source software development has been profoundly consequential for both the cultural and technical character of the present-day information commons.

    In the remainder of the essay, I gesture at a critique of this view of the internet’s alleged emancipatory potential by examining its underlying assumptions and the theory of democracy to which it adheres. This theory trades on the idea that democracy is an ethical practice, one that achieves its fullest expression in the absence of coercion and the promotion of deliberative norms. This approach to thinking about democracy has numerous analogues in current debates in political theory and political philosophy. In prevailing models of liberal politics, institutions and ethical constraints are privileged over concepts like organization, contestation, and—above all—the pursuit and exercise of power. Indeed, within contemporary liberal political thought it is sometimes difficult to discern the activity of thinking about politics as such. I do not argue here for the merits of contestatory democracy, nor do I conceal an unease with the depoliticizing tendencies of deliberative democracy, or with the tendency to substitute the ethical for the political. Instead I draw out the theoretical commonalities between the emergence of deliberative democracy and the turn toward the digital in relations of production and reproduction. I suggest that critiques of the shortcomings of liberal thought regarding political activity and political persuasion are also applicable to the social and political claims and propositions that undergird the strategies and rhetorics of FLOSS. The hierarchies of commitment that one finds in contemporary liberalism may be detected in FLOSS thought as well. Liberalism typically prioritizes intersubjectivity over mass political action and contestation. Similarly, FLOSS rhetoric focuses on ethical persuasion rather than the pursuit of influence and social power such that proprietarian computing may be resisted or challenged. Liberalism also prioritizes property relations over other social relations. The FLOSS movement similarly retains a stark commitment to the priority of liberal property relations and to the idea of personal property in digital commodities (Pedersen 2010).

    In the context of FLOSS and the information commons, a depoliticized theory of democracy fails to attend to the dynamics of power, and to crucial considerations of political economy in communications and computing. An insistence on conceiving of democracy as an ethical aspiration or as a moral ideal—rather than as a practice of mass politics with a given historical and institutional specificity—serves to obscure crucial features of the internet as a cultural and social phenomenon. It also grants an illusory warrant for ideological claims to the effect that computing and internet-mediated communication constitute meaningful and consequential forms of civic participation and political engagement. As the ethical displaces the political, so the technological displaces the ethical. In the process, the workings of power are obscured, the ideological trappings of technologically-mediated domination are mystified, and the social forms that are peculiar to internet subcultures are naturalized as typifying the form of social organization that all democrats ought to seek after.

    In identifying the theoretical affinities between the liberalism of the digital turn and the ethical turn in liberal political theory, I hope to contribute to an enriched, interdisciplinary understanding of the available spaces for investigation and research with respect to emerging trends in digital life. The social relations that are both constituted by and constitutive of the worlds of software, networked communication, and pervasive computing are rightly becoming the objects of sustained study within disparate fields in humanistic disciplines. This essay aims at provoking new questions in such study by examining the theoretical linkages between the digital turn and the ethical turn.

    The Digital Turn

    The internet—considered in the broadest possible sense, as something comprised of networks and terminals through which various forms of sociality are mediated electronically—attracts, of course, no small amount of academic, elite, and popular attention. A familiar story tends to arise out of these attentions. The digital turn ushers in the promise of digital democracy: an expansion of opportunities for participation in politics (Klein 1999), and a revolutionizing of communications that connects individuals in networks (Castells 2010) of informed and engaged consumers and producers of non-material content (Shirky 2008). Dissent would prove impossible to stifle, as information—endowed with its own virtual, composite personality, and empowered by sophisticated technologies—would both want and be able to be free. “The Net interprets censorship as damage and routes around it” (as cited in Reagle 1999) is a famous—and possibly apocryphal—variant of this piece of folk wisdom. Pervasive networked computing ensures that citizens will be self-mobilizing in their participation in politics and in their scrutiny of corruption and rights abuses. Capital, meanwhile, can anticipate a new suite of needs to be satisfied through informational commodities. The only losers are governments that, despite enthusiastic rhetoric about an “information superhighway,” are unable to keep pace with technological growth, or with popular adoption of decentralized communications media. Their capacities to restrict or control discourse will be crippled; their control over their own populations will diminish in proportion to the growth of electronically-mediated communication.[2]

    Much of the excitement over the internet is freighted with neoliberal (Brown 2005) ideology, either in implicit or explicit terms. On this view, liberalism’s focus on the unfettered movement of commodities and the unrestricted consumption activities of individuals will find its final and definitive instantiation in a world of digital objects (with a marginal cost approaching zero) and the satisfaction of consumer needs through novel and innovative patterns of distribution. The cultural commons may be reclaimed through transformations of digital labor—social, collaborative, and remix-friendly (Benkler 2006). Problems of production can be solved through increasingly sophisticated chains of logistics (Bonacich and Wilson 2008), finally fulfilling the unrealized cybernetic dreams of planners and futurists in the twentieth century.[3] Political superintendence of the market—and many other social fields—will be rendered redundant by rapid, unmediated feedback mechanisms linking producers and consumers. This contradictory utopia will achieve a non-coercive panopticon of full information, made possible through the endless concatenation of individual decisions to consume, evaluate, and generate information (Shirky 2008).

    This prediction has not been vindicated. Contemporary observers of the internet age do not typically describe it in terms of democratic vistas and cultural efflorescence. They are likelier to examine it in terms of the extension of technologies of control and surveillance, and in terms of the subsumption of sociality under the regime of neoliberal capital accumulation. Indeed, the digital turn follows a trajectory similar to that of the neoliberal turn in governance. The neoliberal turn has enhanced rather than undermined the capacity of the state. Those capacities are directed not at the provision of public goods and social services but rather coercive security and labor discipline. The digital turn’s course has decidedly not been one of individual empowerment and an expansion of the scope of participatory forms of democratic politics. Instead, networked computing is now a profit center for a small number of titanic capitals. Certainly, the revolution in communications technology has influenced social relations. But the political consequences of that influence do not constitute a profound transformation and extension of democracy (Hindman 2008). Nor are the consequences of the revolution in communications uniformly emancipatory (Morozov 2011). More generally, the subsumption of greater swathes of sociality within the logics of computing presents the risk of the enclosure of public information, and of the extension of the capabilities of the powerful to surveil and coerce others while evading public supervision (Drahos 2002, Golumbia 2009, Pasquale 2015).

    Extensive critiques of “the Californian ideology” (Barbrook and Cameron 2002), renascent “cyberlibertarianism” (Dahlberg 2010) and its affinities with longstanding currents in right-wing thought (Golumbia 2013), and related ideological formations are all ready to hand. The digital turn is of course not characterized by a singular politics. However, the hegemonic political tendency associated with it may be fairly described as a complex of libertarian ideology, neoliberal political economy, and antistatist rhetoric. The material substrate for this complex is the burgeoning arena of capitals pursuing profits through the exploitation of “digital labor” (Fuchs 2014). Such labor occurs in software development, but also in hardware manufacturing; the buying, selling, and licensing of intellectual property; and the extractive industries providing the necessary mineral ores, rare earth metals, and other primary inputs for the production of computers (on this point see especially Dyer-Witheford 2015). The growth of this sector has been accomplished through the exploitation of racialized and marginalized populations (see, for example, Amrute 2016), the expropriation of the commons through the transformation of public assets into private property, and the decoupling in the public mind of any link between easily accessed electronic media and computing power, on the one hand, and massive power consumption and environmental devastation, on the other.

    To the extent that hopes for the emancipatory potential of a cyberlibertarian future have been dashed, enthusiasm for the left-right hybrid politics that first bruited it is still widespread. In areas in which emancipatory hopes remain unchastened by the experience of capital’s colonization of the information commons, that enthusiasm is undiminished. FLOSS movements are important examples of such areas. In FLOSS communities and spaces, left-liberal commitments to social justice causes are frequently melded with a neoliberal faith in decentralized, autonomous activity in the development, deployment, and maintenance of computing processes. When FLOSS activists self-reflexively articulate their political commitments, they adopt rhetorics of democracy and cooperative self-determination that are broadly left-liberal. However, the politics of FLOSS, like hacker politics in general, also betray a right-libertarian fixation on the removal of obstacles to individual wills. The hacker’s political horizon is the unfettering of the socially untethered, electronically empowered self (Borsook 2000). Similarly, the liberal commitments that undergird contemporary theories of “deliberative democracy” are easily adapted to serve libertarian visions of the good society.

    The Ethical and the Political

    The liberalism of such political theory as is encountered in FLOSS discourse may be fruitfully compared to the turn toward deliberative models of social organization. This turn is characterized by a dual trend in postwar political thought, centrally but not exclusively limited to the North Atlantic academy.  It consists of the elision of theoretical distinctions between individual ethical practice and democratic citizenship, while increasing the theoretical gap between agonistic practices—contestation, conflict, direction action—and policy-making within the institutional context of liberal constitutionality. The political is often equated with conflict—and thereby, potentially, violence or coercion. The ethical, by contrast, comes closer to resembling democracy as such. Democracy is, or ought to be, “depoliticized” (Pettit 2004); deliberative democracy, aimed at the realization of ethical consensus, is normatively prior to aggregative democracy or the mere counting of votes. On this view, the historical task of democracy is not to grant greater social purchase to political tendencies or formations; nor does it consist in forging tighter links between decision-making institutions and the popular will. Rather, democracy is a legitimation project, under which the decisions of representative elites are justified in terms of the publicity of the reasons or justifications supplied on their behalf. The uncertain movement between these two poles—conceiving of democracy as a normative ideal, and conceiving of it as a description of adequately legitimated institutions—is hardly unique to contemporary democratic theory. The turn toward the deliberative and the ethical is distinguished by the narrowness of its conception of the democratic—indeed by its insistence that the democratic, properly understood, is characterized by the dampening of political conflict and a tendential movement toward consensus.

    Why ought we consider the trajectory of postwar liberal thought in conjunction with the digital turn? First, there are, of course, similarities and continuities between the fortunes of liberal ideology in both the world of software work and the world of academic labor. The former is marked to a much greater extent by a widespread distrust of mechanisms of governance and is indelibly marked by outpourings of an ascendant strain of libertarian triumphalism. Where ideological development in software work has charted a libertarian course, in academic Anglophone political thought it has more closely followed a path of neoliberal restructuring. To the extent that we maintain an interest in the consequences of the digitization of sociality, it is germane and appropriate to consider liberalism in software work and liberalism in professional political theory in tandem. However, there is a rather more important reason to chart the movement of liberal political thought in this context: many of the debates, problematics, and proffered solutions in the politico-ideological discourse in the world of software work are, as it were, always already present in liberal democratic theory. As such, an examination of the ethical turn—liberal democratic theory’s disavowal of contestation, and of the agon that interpellates structures of politics (Mouffe 2005, 80–105)—can aid further, subsequent examinations of the ontological, methodological, and normative presuppositions that inform the self-understanding of formations and tendencies within FLOSS movements. Both FLOSS discourses and professional democratic theory tend to discharge conclusions in favor of a depoliticized form of democracy.

    Deliberative democracy’s roots lie in liberal legitimation projects begun in response to challenges from below and outside existing power structures. Despite effacing its own political content, deliberative democracy must nevertheless be understood as a political project. Notable gestures toward the concept may be found in John Rawls’s theory-building project, beginning with A Theory of Justice (1971); and in Jürgen Habermas’s attempts to render the intellectual legacy of the Frankfurt School compatible with postwar liberalism, culminating in Between Facts and Norms (1996). These philosophical moves were being made at the same time as the fragmentation of the postwar political and economic consensus in developed capitalist democracies. Critics have detected a trend toward retrenchment in both currents: the evacuation of political economy—let alone Marxian thought—from critical theory; the accommodation made by Rawls and his epigones with public choice theory and neoliberal economic frames. The turn from contestatory politics in Anglophone political thought was simultaneous with the rise of a sense that the institutional continuity and stability of democracy were in greater need of defense than were demands for political criticism and social transformation. By the end of the postwar boom years, an accommodation with “neoliberal governmentality” (Brown 2015) was under way throughout North Atlantic intellectual life. The horizons of imagined political possibility were contracting at the very conjuncture when labor movements and left political formations foundered in the face of the consolidation of the capitalist restructuring under way since the third quarter of the twentieth century.

    Rawls’s account of justified institutions does not place a great emphasis on mass politics; nor does Habermas’s delineation of the boundaries of the ideal circumstances for communication—except insofar as the memory of fascism that Habermas inherited from the Frankfurt School weighs heavily on his forays into democratic theory. Mass politics is an inherently suspect category in Habermas’s thought. It is telling—and by no means surprising—that the two heavyweight theorists of North Atlantic postwar social democracy are primarily concerned with political institutions and with “the ideal speech situation” (Habermas 1996, 322–328) rather than with mass politics. They are both concerned with making justificatory moves rather than with exploring the possibilities and limits to mass politics and collective action. Rawls’s theory of justice describes a technocratic scheme for a minimally redistributive social democratic polity, while Habermas’s oeuvre has increasingly come to serve as the most sophisticated philosophical brief on behalf of the project of European cosmopolitan liberalism. Within the confines of this essay it is impossible to engage in a sustained consideration of the full sweep of Rawls’s political theory, including his conception of an egalitarian and redistributive polity and his constructivist account of political justification; similarly, the survey of Habermas presented here is necessarily compressed and abstracted. I restrict the scope of my critical gestures to the contributions made by Rawls and Habermas to the articulation of a deliberative conception of democracy. In this respect, they were strikingly similar:

    Both Rawls and Habermas assert, albeit in different ways, that the aim of democracy is to establish a rational agreement in the public sphere. Their theories differ with respect to the procedures of deliberation that are needed to reach it, but their objective is the same: to reach a consensus, without exclusion, on the ‘common good.’ Although they claim to be pluralist, it is clear that theirs is a pluralism whose legitimacy is only recognized in the private sphere and that it has no constitutive place in the public one. They are adamant that democratic politics requires the elimination of passions from the public sphere. (Mouffe 2013, 55)

    In neither Rawls’s nor Habermas’s writings is the theory of deliberative democracy simply the expression of a preference for the procedural over the substantive. It is better understood as a preference for unity and consensus, coupled with a minoritarian suspicion of the institutions and norms of mass electoral democracy. It is true that both their deliberative democratic theories evince considerable concern for the procedures and conditions under which issues are identified, alternatives are articulated, and decisions are made. However, this concern is motivated by a preoccupation with a particular substantive interest: specifically, the reproduction of liberal democratic forms. Such forms are valued not for their own sake—indeed, that would verge on incoherence—but because they are held to secure certain moral ends: respect for individuals, reciprocity of regard or recognition between persons, the banishment of coercion from public life, and so on. The ends of politics are framed in terms of morality—a system of universal duties or ends. The task of political theory is to envision institutions which can secure ends or goods that may be seen as intrinsically desirable. Notions that the political might be an autonomous domain of human activity, or that political theory’s ambit extends beyond making sense of existing configurations of institutions, are discarded. In their place is an approach to political thought rooted in concerns about technologies of governance. Such an approach concerns itself with political disagreement primarily insofar as it is a foreseeable problem that must be managed and contained.

    Depoliticized, deliberative democracy may be characterized as one or more of several forms of commitment to an apolitical conception of social organization. It is methodologically individualist: it takes the (adult, sociologically normative and therefore likely white and cis-male) individual person as the appropriate object of analysis and as the denominator to which social structures ultimately reduce. It is often intersubjective in its model of communication: that is, ideas are transmitted by and between individuals, typically or ideally two individuals standing in a relation of uncoerced respect with one another. It is usually deliberative in the kind of decision-making it privileges: authoritative decisions arise not out of majoritarian voting mechanisms or mass expressions of collective will, but rather out of discursive encounters that encourage the formation and exchange of claims whose content conform to specific substantive criteria. It is often predicated on the notion that the most valuable or self-constitutive of individuals’ beliefs and understandings are pre-political: individual rational agents are “self-authenticating sources of valid claims” (Rawls 2001, 23). Their claims are treated as exogenous to the social and political contexts in which they are found. Depoliticized democracy is frequently racialized and erected on a series of assumptions and cultural logics of hierarchy and domination (Mills 1997). Finally, depoliticized democracy insists on a particular hermeneutic horizon: the publicity of reasons. For any claim to be considered credible, and for public exercises to be considered legitimate, they must be comprehensible in terms of the worldviews, held premises, or anterior normative commitments of all persons who might somehow be affected by them.

    Theories of deliberative democracy are not merely suspicious of political disagreement—they typically treat it as pathological. Social cleavages over ideology (which may always be reduced to the concatenation of individual deliberations) are evidence either of bad faith argumentation or a failure to apprehend the true nature of the common good. To the extent that deliberative democracy is not nakedly elitist, it ascribes to those democratic polities it considers well-formed a capacity for a peculiar kind of authority. Such collectivities are capable, by virtue of their well-formed deliberative structures, of discharging decisions that are binding precisely because they are correct with reference to standards that are anterior to any dialectic that might take place within the social body itself. Consequently, much depends on the ideological content of those standards.

    The concept of public reason has acquired special potency in the hands of Rawls’s legatees in North American analytic political philosophy. Similar in aim to Habermas’s ideal speech situation, the modern idea of public reason is meant to model an ideal state of deliberative democracy. Rawls locates its origins in Rousseau (Rawls 2007, 231). However, it acquires a specifically Kantian conception in his elaboration (Rawls 2001, 91–94), and an extensive literature in analytic political philosophy is devoted to the elaboration of the concept in a Rawlsian mode (for a good recent discussion see Quong 2013). Public reason requires that contested policies’ justifications are comprehensible to those who controvert those policies. More generally, the polity in which the ideal public reason obtains is one in which interlocutors hold themselves to be obliged to share, to the extent possible, the premises from which political reasoning proceeds. Arguments that are deemed to originate from outside the boundaries of public reason cannot serve a legitimating function. Public reason usually finds expression in the writings of liberal theorists as an explanation for why controverted policies or decisions may nevertheless be viewed as substantively appropriate and democratically legitimated.

    Proponents of public reason often cast the ideal as a commonplace of reasonable discussion that merely binds interlocutors to deliberate in good faith. However, public reason may also be described as a cudgel with which to police the boundaries of debate. It effectively cedes discursive power to those who controvert public policy in order to control the trajectory of the discourse—if they are possessed of enough social power. Explicitly liberal in its philosophical genealogy, public reason is expressive of liberal democratic theory’s wariness with respect to both radical and reactionary politics. Many liberal theorists are primarily concerned to show how public reason constrains reactionaries from advancing arguments that rest on religious or theological grounds. An insistence on public reasonableness (perhaps framed through an appeal to norms of civility) may also allow the powerful to cavil at challenges to prevailing economic thought as well as to prevailing understandings of the relationship between the public and the religious.

    Habermas’s project on the communicative grounds of liberal democracy (1998) reflects a similar commitment to containing disagreement and establishing the parameters when and how citizens may contest political institutions and the rules they produce and enforce. His “discourse principle” (1996, 107) is not unlike Rawls’s conception of public reason in that it is intended to serve as a justificatory ground for deliberations tending toward consensus. According to the discourse principle, a given rule or law is justified if and only if those who are to be affected by it could accept it as the product of a reasonable discourse. Much of Habermas’s work—particularly Between Facts and Norms (1996)—is devoted to establishing the parameters of reasonable discourses. Such cartographies are laid out not with respect to controversies arising out of actually existing politics (such as pan-European integration or the problems of contemporary German right-wing politics). They are instead sited within the coordinates of Habermas’s specification of the linguistic and pragmatic contours of the social world in established constitutional democracies. The practical application of the discourse principle is often recursive, in that the particular implications and the scope of the discourse principle require further elaboration or extension within any given domain of practical activity in which the principle is invoked. Despite its rarefied abstraction, the discourse principle is meant in the final instance to be embedded in real activities and sites of discursive activity. (Habermas’s work in ethics parallels his discourse-theoretic approach to politics. His dialogical principle of universalization holds that moral norms are valid insofar as its observance—and the effects of that observance—would be accepted singly and jointly by all those affected.)

    Both Rawls and Habermas’s conceptions of the communicative activity underlying collective decision-making are strongly motivated by concerns for intersubjective ethical concerns. If anything, Habermas’s discourse ethics, and the parallel moves that he makes in his interventions in political thought, are more exacting than Rawls’s conception of public reason, both in terms of the discursive environments that they presuppose as well as the demands that they place upon individual interlocutors. Both thinkers’ views also conceive of political conflict as a field in which ethical questions predominate. Indeed, under these views political antagonism might be seen as pathological, or at least taken to be the locus of a sort of problem situation: If politics is taken to be a search for the common welfare (grounded in commonly-avowed terms), or is held to consist in the provision of public goods whose worth can, in principle, be agreed upon, then it would make sense to think that political antagonism is an ill to be avoided. Politics would then be exceptional, whereas the suspension of political antagonism for the sake of decisive, authoritative decision-making would be the norm. This is the core constitutive contradiction of the theory of deliberative democracy: the priority given to discussion and rationality tends to foreclose the possibility of contestation and disagreement.

    If, however, politics is a struggle for power in the pursuit of collective interests, it becomes harder to insist that the task of politics is to smooth over differences, rather than to articulate them and act upon them. Both Rawls and Habermas have been the subjects of extensive critique by proponents of several different perspectives in political theory. Communitarian critics have typically charged Rawls with relying on a too-atomized conception of individual subjects, whose preferences and beliefs are unformed by social, cultural or institutional contexts (Gutmann 1985); similar criticisms have been mounted against Habermas (see, for example, C. Taylor 1989). Both thinkers’ accounts of the foundations of political order fail to acknowledge the politically constitutive aspects of gender and sexuality (Okin 1989, Meehan 1995). From the perspective of a more radical conception of democracy, even Rawls’s later writings in which he claims to offer a constructivist (rather than metaphysical) account of political morality (Rawls 1993) does not necessarily pass muster, particularly given that his theory is fundamentally a brief for liberalism and not for the democratization of society (for elaboration of this claim see Wolin 1996).

    Deliberative democracy, considered as a prescriptive model of politics, represents a striking departure both from political thought on the right—typically preoccupied with maintaining cultural logics and preserving existing social hierarchies—and political thought on the left, which often emphasizes contingency, conflict, and the priority of collective action. Both of these latter approaches to politics take social phenomena as subjects of concern in and of themselves, and not merely as intermediate formations which reduce to individual subjectivity. The substitution of the ethical for the political marks an intellectual project that is adequate to the imperatives of a capitalist political economy. The contradictory merger of the ethical anxieties underpinning deliberative democratic theory and liberal democracy’s notional commitment to legitimation through popular sovereignty tends toward quietism and immobilism.

    FLOSS and Democracy

    The free and open source software movements are cases of distinct importance in the emergence of digital democracy. Their traditions, and many of the actors who participate in them, antedate the digital turn considerably: the free software movement began in earnest in the mid-1980s, while its social and technical roots may be traced further back and are tangled with countercultural trends in computing in the 1970s. The movements display durable commitments to ethical democracy in their rhetoric, their organizational strategies, and the philosophical presuppositions that are revealed in their aims and activities (Coleman 2012).

    FLOSS is sited at the intersection of many of liberal democratic theory’s desiderata. These are property, persuasion, rights, and ethics. The movement is a flawed, incompletely successful, but suggestive and instructive attempt at reconfiguring capitalist property relations—importantly, and fatally, from inside of an existing set of capitalist property relations—for the sake of realizing liberal ethical commitments with respect to expression, communication, and above all personal autonomy. Self-conscious hackers in the world of FLOSS conceive of their shared goals as the maximization of individual freedom with respect to the use of computers. Coleman describes how many hackers conceive of this activity in explicitly ethical terms. For them, hacking is a vital expression of individual freedom—simultaneously an aesthetic posture as well as a furtherance of specific ethical projects (such as the dissemination of information, or the empowerment of the alienated subject).

    The origins of the free software movement are found in the countercultural currents of computing in the 1970s, when several lines of inquiry and speculation converged: cybernetics, decentralization, critiques of bureaucratic organization, and burgeoning individualist libertarianism. Early hacker values—such as unfettered sharing and collaboration, a suspicion of distant authority given expression through decentralization and redundancy, and the maximization of the latitude of individual coders and users to alter and deploy software as they see fit—might be seen as the outflowing of several political traditions, notably participatory democracy and mutualist forms of anarchism. Certainly, the computing counterculture born in the 1970s was self-consciously opposed to what it saw as the bureaucratized, sclerotic, and conformist culture of major computing firms and research laboratories (Barbrook and Cameron 2002). Richard Stallman’s 1985 declaration of the need for, and the principles underlying, the free development of software is often treated as the locus classicus of the movement (Stallman, The GNU Manifesto 2015). Stallman succeeded in instigating a narrow kind of movement, one whose social specifity it is possible to trace. Its social basis consisted of communities of software developers, analysts, administrators, and hobbyists—in a word, hackers—that shared Stallman’s concerns over the subsumption of software development under the value-expanding imperatives of capital. As they saw it, the values of hacking were threatened by a proprietarian software development model predicated on the enclosure of the intellectual commons.

    Democracy, as it is championed by FLOSS advocates, is not necessarily an ideal of well-ordered constitutional forms and institutions whose procedures are grounded in norms of reciprocity and intersubjective rationality. It is characterized by a tension between an enthusiasm for volatile forms of participatory democracy and a tendency toward deference to the competence or charisma (the two are frequently conflated) of leaders. Nevertheless, the parallels between the two political projects—deliberative democracy and hacker liberation under the banner of FLOSS—are striking. Both projects share an emphasis on the persuasion of individuals, such that intersubjective rationality is the test of the permissibility of power arrangements or use restrictions. As such, both projects—insofar as they are to be considered to be interventions in politics—are necessarily self-limiting.

    Exponents of digital democracy rely on a conception of democracy that is strikingly similar to the theory of ethical democracy considered above. The constitutive documents and inscriptive commitments of various FLOSS communities bear witness to this. FLOSS communities should attract our interest because they are frequently animated by ethical and political concerns which appear to be liberal—even left-liberal—rather than libertarian. Barbrook and Cameron’s “Californian ideology” is frequently manifested in libertarian rhetorics that tend to have a right-wing grounding. The rise of Bitcoin is also a particularly resonant recent example (Golumbia 2016). The adulation that accompanies the accumulation of wealth in Silicon Valley furnishes a more abstract example of the ideological celebration of acquisitive amour propre in computing’s social relations. The ideological substrate of commercial computing is palpably right-wing, at least in its orientation to political economy. As such it is all the more noteworthy that the ideological commitments of many FLOSS projects appear to be animated by ethico-political concerns that are more typical of left-liberalism, such as: consensus-seeking modes of collective decision-making; recognition of the struggles and claims of members of marginalized or oppressed groups; and the affirmation of differing identifies.

    Free software rhetoric relies on concepts like liberty and freedom (Free Software Foundation 2016). It is in this rhetoric that free software’s imbrication within capitalist property relations is most apparent:

    Freedom means having control over your own life. If you use a program to carry out activities in your life, your freedom depends on your having control over the program. You deserve to have control over the programs you use, and all the more so when you use them for something important in your life. (Stallman 2015)

    Stallman’s equation of freedom with control—self-control—is telling: Copyleft does not subvert copyright; it depends upon it. Hacking is dependent upon the corporate structure of industrial software development. It is embedded in the social matrix of closed-source software production, even though hackers tend to believe that “their expertise will keep them on the upside of the technology curve that protects the best and brightest from proletarianization” (Ross 2009, 168). A dual contradiction is at work here. First, copyleft inverts copyright in order to produce social conditions in which free software production may occur. Second, copyleft nevertheless remains dependent on closed-source software development for its own social reproduction. Without the state power that is necessary for contracts to be enforced, or without the reproduction of technical knowledge that is underwritten by capital’s continued interest in software development, FLOSS loses its social base. Artisanal hacking or digital homesteading could not enter into the void were capitalist computing to suddenly disappear. The decentralized production of software is largely epiphenomenal upon the centralized and highly cooperative models of development and deployment that typify commercial software development. The openness of development stands in uneasy contrast with the hierarchical organization of the management and direction of software firms (Russell 2014).

    Capital has accommodated free and open source software with little difficulty, as can be seen in the expansion of the open source software movement. As noted above, many advocates of both the free software and open source software movements frequently aver that their commitments overlap to the point that any differences are largely ones of emphasis. Nevertheless, open source software differs—in an ideal, if not political, sense—from free software in its distinct orientation to the value of freedom: it is something which is to be valued as the absence of the fetters on coding, design, and debugging that characterize proprietary software development. As such open source software trades on an interpretation of freedom that is rather distinct from the ethical individualism of free software. Indeed, it is more recognizably politically adjacent to right-wing libertarianism. This may be seen, for example, in the writings of His influential essay “The Cathedral and the Bazaar” is a paean not to the emancipatory potential of open source software but its adaptability and suitability for large-scale, rapid-turnover software development—and its amenability to the prerogatives of capital (Raymond 2000).

    One of the key ethical arguments made by free and open source software advocates rests on an understanding of property that is historically specific. The conception of property deployed within FLOSS is the absolute and total right of owners to dispose of their possessions—a form of property rights that is peculiar to the juridical apparatus of capitalism. There are, of course, superficial resemblances between software license agreements—which curtail the rights of those who buy hardware with pre-installed commercial software, for example—and the seigneurial prerogatives associated with feudalism. However, the specific set of property relations underpinning capitalist software development is also the same set of property relations that are traded upon in FLOSS theory. FLOSS criticism of proprietary software rarely extends to a criticism of private property as such. Ethical arguments for the expansion of personal computing freedoms, made with respect to the prevailing set of property relations, frequently focus on consumption. The focus may be positive: the freedom of the individual finds expression in the autonomy of the rational consumer of commodities. Or the focus may be negative: individual users must eschew a consumerist approach to computing or they will be left at the mercy of corporate owners of proprietary software.

    Arguments erected on premises about individual consumption choices are not easily extended to the sphere of collective political action. They do not discharge calls for pressuring political institutions or pursuing public power. The Free Software Foundation, the main organizational node of the free software movement, addresses itself to individual users (and individual capitalist firms) and places its faith in the ersatz property relations made possible by copyleft’s parasitism on copyright. The FSF’s ostensible non-alignment is really complementary, rather than antagonistic with, the alignments of major open source organizations. Organizations associated with the open source software movement are eager to find institutional partners in the business world. It is certainly the case that in the world of commercial computing, the open source approach has been embraced as an effective means for socializing the costs of software production (and the reproduction of software development capacities) while privatizing the monetary rewards that can be realized on the basis of commodified software. Meanwhile, the writings of Stallman and the promotional literature of the Free Software Foundation eschew the kind of broad-based political strategy that their analysis would seem to militate for, one in which FLOSS movements would join up with other social movements. An immobilist tendency toward a single-issue approach to politics is characteristic of FLOSS at large.

    One aspect of deliberative democracy—an aspect that is, as we have seen treated as banal in an unproblematic by many theorists of liberalism—that is often given greater emphasis by active proponents of digital democracy is the primacy of liberal property relations. Property relations take on special urgency in the discourse and praxis of free and open source software movements. Particularly in the propaganda and apologia of the open source movement, the personal computer is the ultimate form of personal property. More than that—it is an extension of the self. Computers are intimately enmeshed in human lives, to a degree even greater than was the case thirty years ago. To many hackers, the possibility that the code executed on their machines is beyond their inspection is a violation of their individual autonomy. Tellingly, analogies for this putative loss of freedom take as their postulates the “normal,” extant ways in which owners relate to the commodities they have purchased. (For example, running proprietary code on a computer may be analogized to driving a car whose hood cannot be opened.)

    Consider the Debian Social Contract, which encodes a variety of liberal principles as the constitutive political materials of the Debian project, adopted in the wake of a series of controversies and debates about gender imbalance (O’Neil 2009, 129–146). That the project’s constitutive document is self-reflexively liberal is signaled in its very title: it presupposes liberal concerns with the maximization of personal freedom and the minimization of coercion, all under the rubric of cooperation for a shared goal. The Debian Social Contract was the product of internal struggles within the Debian project, which aims to produce a technically sophisticated and yet ethically grounded version of the GNU/Linux operating system. It represents the ascendancy of a tendency within the Debian project that sought to affirm the project’s emancipatory aims. This is not to suggest that, prior to the adoption of the Social Contract, the project was characterized by an uncontested focus on technical expertise, at the direct expense of an emancipatory vision of FLOSS computing; nevertheless, the experience decisively shifted Debian’s trajectory such that it was no longer parallel with that of related projects.

    Another example of FLOSS’s fetishism for non-coercive, individual-centered ethics may be found in the emphasis placed on maximizing individual user freedom. The FSF, for example, considers it a violation of user autonomy to make the use of free, open source software conditional by restricting its use—even only notionally—to legal or morally-sanctioned use cases. As is often the case when individualist libertarianism comes into contact with practical politics, an obstinate insistence on abstract principles discharges absurd commitments. The major stakeholders and organizational nodes in the free software movement—the FSF, the GNU development community, and so on—refuse even to censure the use of free software in situations characterized by the restriction or violation of personal freedoms: military computing, governmental surveillance, and so on.

    It must also be noted that the hacker ethos is at least partially coterminous with cyberlibertarianism. Found in both is the tendency to see the digital sphere as both the vindication of neoliberal economic precepts as well as the ideal terrain in which to pursue right-wing social projects. From the user’s perspective, cyberlibertarianism is presented as a license to use and appropriate the work of others who have made their works available for such purposes. It may perhaps be said that cyberlibertarianism is the ethos of the alienated monad pursuing jouissance through the acquisition of technical mastery and control over a personal object, the computer.

    Persuasion and Contestation

    We are now in a position to examine the contradictions in the theory of politics that informs FLOSS activity. These contradictions converge at two distinct—though certainly related—sites. The first site centers on power, and interest aggregation; the second, on property and the claims of users over their machines and data. An elaboration and examination of these contradictions will suggest that, far from overcoming or transcending the contradictions of liberalism as they inhere either in contemporary political practice or in liberal political thought, FLOSS hackers and activists have reproduced them in their practices as well as in their texts.

    The first site of contradiction centers on politics. FLOSS advocates adhere to an understanding of politics that emphasizes moral suasion and that valorizes the autonomy of the individual to pursue chosen projects and satisfy their own preferences. This despite the fact that the primary antagonists in the FLOSS political imaginary—corporate owners of IP portfolios, developers and retailers of proprietary software, and policy-makers and bureaucrats—possess considerable political, legal, and social power. FLOSS discourses counterpose to this power, not counterpower but evasion, escape, and exit. Copyleft itself may be characterized as evasive, but more central here is the insistence that FLOSS is an ethical rather than a political project, in which individual developers and users must not be corralled into particular formations that might use their collective strength to demand concessions or transform digitally mediated social relations. This disavowal of politics directly inhibits the articulation of counter-positions and the pursuit of counterpower.

    So long as FLOSS as a political orientation remains grounded in a strategic posture of libertarian individualism and interpersonal moral suasion, it will be unable to effectively underwrite demands or place significant pressures on institutions and decision-making bodies. FLOSS political rhetoric trades heavily on tropes of individual sovereignty, egalitarian epistemologies, and participatory modes of decision-making. Such rhetorics align comfortably with the currently prevailing consensus regarding the aims and methods of democratic politics, but when relied on naïvely or uncritically, they place severe limits on the capacity for the FLOSS movement to expand its political horizons, or indeed to assert itself in such a way as to become a force to be reckoned with.

    The second site of contradiction is centered on property relations. In the self-reflexive and carefully articulated discourse of FLOSS advocates, persons are treated as ethical agents, but such agents are primarily concerned with questions of the disposition of their property—most importantly, their personal computing devices. Free software advocates, in particular, emphasize the importance of users’ freedoms, but their attentiveness to such freedoms appears to end at the interface between owner and machine. More generally, property relations are foregrounded in FLOSS discourse even as such discourse draws upon and deploys copyleft in order to weaponize intellectual property law against proprietarian use cases.

    For so long as FLOSS as a social practice remains centered on copyleft, it will reproduce and reinforce the property relations which sustain a scarcity economy of intellectual creations. Copyleft is commonly understood as an ingenious solution to what is seen as an inherent tendency in the world of software towards restrictions on access, limitations on communication and exchange of information, and the diminution of the informational commons. However, these tendencies are more appropriately conceived of as notably enduring features of the political economy of capitalism itself. Copyleft cannot dismantle a juridical framework heavily weighted in favor of ownership in intellectual property from the inside—no more so than a worker-controlled-and-operated enterprise threatens the circuits of commodity production and exchange that comprise capitalism as a set of social relations. Moreover, major FLOSS advocates—including the FSF and the Open Source Initiative—proudly note the reliance of capitalist firms on open source software in their FAQs, press releases, and media materials. Such a posture—welcoming the embrace of FLOSS the software industry, with its attendant practices of labor discipline and domination, customer and citizen surveillance, and privatization of data—stands in contradiction with putative FLOSS values like collaborative production, code transparency, and user freedom.

    The persistence—even, in some respects, the flourishing—of FLOSS in the current moment represents a considerable achievement. Capitalism’s tendency toward crisis continues to impel social relations toward the subsumption of more and more of the social under the rubric of commodity production and exchange. And yet it is still the case that access to computing processes, logics, and resources remains substantially unrestricted by legal or commercial barriers. Much of this must be credited to the efforts of FLOSS activists. The first cohort of FLOSS activists recognized that resisting the commodification of the information commons was a social struggle—not simply a technical challenge—and sought to combat it. That they did so according to the logic of single-issue interest group activism, rather than in solidarity with a broader struggle against commodification, should perhaps not be surprising; in the final quarter of the twentieth century, broad struggles for power and recognition by and on behalf of workers and the poor were at their lowest ebb in a century, and a reconfiguration of elite power in the state and capitalism was well under way. Cross-class, multiracial, and gender-inclusive social movements were losing traction in the face of retrenchment by a newly emboldened ruling class; and the conceptual space occupied by such work was contested. Articulating their interests and claims as participants in liberal interest group politics was by no means the poorest available strategic choice for FLOSS proponents.

    The contradictions of such an approach have nevertheless developed apace, such that the current limitations and impasses faced by FLOSS movements appear more or less intractable. Free and open source software is integral to the operations of some of the largest firms in economic history. Facebook (2018), Apple (2018), and Google (Alphabet, Inc. 2018), for example, all proudly declare their support of and involvement in open source development.[4] Millions of coders, hackers, and users can and do participate in widely (if unevenly) distributed networks of software development, debugging, and deployment. It is now a practical possibility for the home user to run and maintain a computer without proprietary software installed on it. Nevertheless, proprietary software development remains a staggeringly profitable undertaking, FLOSS hacking remains socially and technically dependent on closed computing, and the home computing market is utterly dominated by the production and sale of machines that ship with and run software that is opaque—by design and by law—to the user’s inspection and modification. These limitations are compounded by FLOSS movements’ contradictions with respect to property relations and political strategy.

    Implications and Further Questions

    The paradoxes and contradictions that attend both the practice and theory of digital democracy in the FLOSS movements bear strong family resemblances to the paradoxes and contradictions that inhere in much contemporary liberal political theory. Liberal democratic theory is frequently committed to the melding of a commitment to rational legitimation with the affirmation of the ideal of popular sovereignty; but an insistence on rational authority tends to undermine the insurgent potential of democratic mass action. Similarly, the public avowals of respect for human rights and the value of user freedom that characterize FLOSS rhetoric are in tension with a simultaneous insistence on moral suasion centered on individual subjectivity. What’s more, they are flatly contradicted by the stated commitments by prominent leaders and stakeholders in FLOSS communities in favor of capitalist labor relations and neutrality with respect to the social or moral consequences of the use of FLOSS. Liberal political theory is potentially self-negating to the extent that it discards the political in favor of the ethical. Similarly, FLOSS movements short-circuit much of FLOSS’s potential social value through a studied refusal to consider the merits of collective action or the necessity of social critique.

    The disjunctures between the rhetorics and stated goals of FLOSS movements and their actual practices and existing social configurations are deserving of greater attention from a variety of perspectives. I have approached those disjunctures through the lens of political theory, but these phenomena are also deserving of attention within other disciplines. The contradiction between FLOSS’s discursive fealty to the emancipatory potential of software and the dependence of FLOSS upon the property relations of capitalism merits further elaboration and exploration. The digital turn is too easily conflated with the democratization of a social world that is increasingly intermediated by networked computing. The prospects for such an opening up of digital public life remain dim.

    _____

    Rob Hunter is an independent scholar who holds a PhD in Politics from Princeton University.

    Back to the essay

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    Acknowledgments

    [*] I am grateful to the b2o: An Online Journal editorial collective and to two anonymous reviewers for their feedback, suggestions, and criticism. Any and all errors in this article are mine alone. Correspondence should be directed to: jrh@rhunter.org.

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    Notes

    [1] The notion of the digitally-empowered “sovereign individual” is adumbrated at length in an eponymous book by Davidson and Rees-Mogg (1999) that sets forth a right-wing techno-utopian vision of network-mediated politics—a reactionary pendant to liberal optimism about the digital turn. I am grateful to David Golumbia for this reference.

    [2] For simultaneous presentations and critiques of these arguments see, for example, Dahlberg and Siapera (2007), Margolis and Moreno-Riaño (2013), Morozov (2013), Taylor (2014), and Tufekci (2017).

    [3] See Bernes (2013) for a thorough presentation of the role of logistics in (re)producing social relations in the present moment.

    [4] “Google believes that open source is good for everyone. By being open and freely available, it enables and encourages collaboration and the development of technology, solving real world problems” (Alphabet, Inc. 2017).

    _____

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  • Gavin Mueller — Digital Proudhonism

    Gavin Mueller — Digital Proudhonism

    Gavin Mueller

    In a passage from his 2014 book Information Doesn’t Want to Be Free author and copyright reformer Cory Doctorow sounds a familiar note against strict copyright. “Creators and investors lose control of their business—they become commodity suppliers for a distribution channel that calls all the shots. Anti-circumvention [laws such as the Digital Millennium Copyright Act, which prohibits subverting controls on the intended use of digital objects] isn’t copyright protection, it’s middleman protection” (50).

    This is the specter haunting the digital cultural economy, according to many of the most influential voices arguing to reform or disrupt it: the specter of the middleman, the monopolist, the distortionist of markets. Rather than an insurgency, this specter emanates from economic incumbency: these middlemen are the culture industries themselves. With the dual revolutions of personal computer and internet connection, record labels, book publishers, and movie studios could maintain their control and their profits only by asserting and strengthening intellectual property protections and squelching the new technologies that subverted them. Thus, these “monopolies” of cultural production threatened to prevent individual creators from using technology to reach their audiences independently.

    Such a critique became conventional wisdom among a rising tide of people who had become accustomed to using the powers of digital technology to copy and paste in order to produce and consume cultural texts, beginning with music. It was most comprehensively articulated in a body of arguments, largely produced by technology evangelists and tech-aligned legal professionals, hailing from the Free Culture movement spearheaded by Lawrence Lessig. The critique’s practical form was the host of piratical activities and peer-to-peer technologies that, in addition to obviating traditional distribution chains, dedicated themselves to attacking culture industries, as well as their trade organizations such as the Recording Industry Association of America (RIAA) and the Motion Picture Association of America (MPAA).

    Connected to this critique is an alternate vision of the digital economy, one that leverages new technological commons, peer production and network effects to empower creators. This vision has variations, and travels under a number of different political banners, from anarchist to libertarian to liberal and many more who prefer not to label.[1] It tells a compelling story (one Doctorow has adapted into novels for young people): against corporate monopolists and state regulation, a multitude, empowered by the democratizing effects bequeathed to society by networked personal computers, and other technologies springing from them, is posed to revolutionize the production of media and information, and, therefore, the political and economic structure as a whole. Work will be small-scale and independent, but, bereft of corporate behemoths, more lucrative than in the past.

    This paper traces the contours of the critique put forth by Doctorow and other revolutionaries of networked digital production in light of a nineteenth-century thinker who espoused remarkably similar arguments over a century ago: the French anarchist Pierre-Joseph Proudhon. Few of these writers are evident readers of Proudhon or explicitly subscribe to his views, though some, such as the Center for Stateless Society do. Rather than a formal doctrine, what I call “Digital Proudhonism” is better understood as what Raymond Williams (1977) calls a “structure of feeling”: a kind of “practical consciousness” that identifies “meanings and values as they are actively lived and felt” (132), in this case, related to specific experiences of networked computer use. In the case under discussion these “affective elements of consciousness and relationships” are often articulated in a political, or at least polemical, register, with real effects on the political self-understanding of networked subjects, the projects they pursue, and their relationship to existing law, policy and institutions. Because of this, I seek to do more than identify currents of contemporary Digital Proudhonism. I maintain that the influence of this set of practices and ideas over the politics of digital production necessitates a critique. In this case, I argue that a return to Marx’s critique of Proudhon will aid us in piercing through the Digital Proudhonist mystifications of the Internet’s effects on politics and industry and reformulate both a theory of cultural production under digital capitalism as well as radical politics of work and technology for the 21st century.

    From the Californian Ideology to Digital Proudhonism

    What I am calling Digital Proudhonism has precedent in the social critique of techno-utopian beliefs surrounding the internet. It echoes Langdon Winner’s (1997) diagnosis of “cyberlibertarianism” in the Progress and Freedom Foundation’s 1994 manifesto “Magna Carta for the Knowledge Age,” where “the wedding of digital technology and the free market” manages to “realize the most extravagant ideals of classical communitarian anarchism” (15). Above all, it bears a marked resemblance to Barbrook and Cameron’s (1996) landmark analysis of the “Californian Ideology,” that “bizarre mish-mash of hippie anarchism and economic liberalism beefed up with lots of technological determinism” emerging from the Wired (in the sense of the magazine) corners of the rise of networked computers, which claims that digital technology is the key to realizing freedom and autonomy (56). As the authors put it, “the Californian Ideology promiscuously combines the free-wheeling spirit of the hippies and the entrepreneurial zeal of the yuppies. This amalgamation of opposites has been achieved through profound faith in the emancipatory potential of new information technologies” (45).

    My contribution will follow the argument of Barbrook and Cameron’s exemplary study. As good Marxists, they recognized that ideology was not merely an abstract belief system, but “offers a way of understanding the lived reality” (50) of a specific social base: “digital artisans” of programmers, software developers, hackers and other skilled technology workers who “not only tend to be well-paid, but also have considerable autonomy over their pace of work and place of employment” (49). Barbrook and Cameron located the antecedents of the Californian Ideology in Thomas Jefferson’s belief that democracy was best secured by self-sufficient individual farmers, a kind of freedom that, as the authors trenchantly note, “was based upon slavery for black people” (59).

    Thomas Jefferson is an oft-cited figure among the digital revolutionaries associated with copyright reform. Law professor James Boyle (2008) drafts Jefferson into the Free Culture movement as a fellow traveler who articulated “a skeptical recognition that intellectual property rights might be necessary, a careful explanation that they should not be treated as natural rights, and a warning of the monopolistic dangers that they pose” (21). Lawrence Lessig cites Jefferson’s remarks on intellectual property approvingly in Free Culture (2004, 84). “Thomas Jefferson and the other Founding Fathers were thoughtful, and got it right,” states Kembrew McLeod (2005) in his discussion of the U.S. Constitution’s clauses on patent and copyright (9).

    There is a deeper political and economic resonance between Jefferson and internet activists beyond his views on intellectual property. Jefferson’s ideal productive arrangement of society was small individual landowners and petty producers: the yeoman farmer. Jefferson believed that individual self-sufficiency guaranteed a democratic society. The abundance of land in the New World and the willingness to expropriate it from the indigenous peoples living there gave his fantasy a plausibility and attraction many Americans still feel today. It was this vision of America as a frontier, an empty space waiting to be filled by new social formations, that makes his philosophy resonate with the techno-adept described by Barbrook and Cameron, who viewed the Internet in a similar way. One of these Californians, John Perry Barlow (1996), who famously declared to “governments of the Industrial World” that “cyberspace does not lie within your borders,” even co-founded an organization dedicated to a deregulated internet called the “Electronic Frontier Foundation.”

    However, not everything online lent itself to the metaphor of a frontier. Particularly in the realm of music and video, artisans dealt with a field crowded with existing content, as well as thickets of intellectual property laws that attempted to regulate how that content was created and distributed. There could be no illusion of a blank canvas on which to project one’s ideal society: in fact, these artisans were noteworthy, not for producing work independently out of whole cloth, but for refashioning existing works through remix. Lawrence Lessig (2004) quotes mashup artist Girl Talk: “We’re living in this remix culture. This appropriation time where any grade-school kid has a copy of Photoshop and can download a picture of George Bush and manipulate his face how they want and send it to their friends” (14). The project of Lessig and others was not to create the conditions for erecting a new society upon a frontier, as a yeoman farmer might, but to politicize this class of artisans in order to challenge larger industrial concerns, such as record labels and film studios, who used copyright to protect their incumbent position. This very different terrain requires a different perspective from Jefferson’s.

    Thomas Jefferson’s vision is not the only expression of the fantasy of a society built on the basis of petty producers. In nineteenth-century Europe, where most land had long been tied up in hereditary estates, large and small, the yeoman farmer ideal held far less influence. Without a belief in abundant land, there could be no illusion of a blank canvas on which a new society could be created: some kind of revolutionary change would have to occur within and against the old one. And so a similar, yet distinct, political philosophy sprang up in France among a similar social base of artisans and craftsmen—those who tended to control their own work process and own their own tools—who made up a significant part of the French economy. As they were used to an individualized mode of production, they too believed that self-sufficiency guaranteed liberty and prosperity. The belief that society should be organized along the lines of petty individual commodity producers, without interference from the state—a belief remarkably consonant with a variety of digital utopians—found its most powerful expression in the ideas of Pierre-Joseph Proudhon. It is to his ideas that I now turn.

    What was Proudhonism?

    An anarchist and influential member of the International Workingmen’s Association of which Karl Marx was also a part, Proudhon’s ideas were especially popular in his native France, where the economy was rooted far more deeply in small-scale artisanal production than the industrial-scale capitalism Marx experienced in Britain. His first major work, What Is Property? ([1840] 2011) (Proudhon’s pithy answer: property is theft) caught the attention of Marx, who admired the work’s thrust and style, even while he criticized its grasp of the science of political economy. After attempting to win over Proudhon by teaching him political economy and Hegelian dialectics, Marx became a vehement critic of Proudhon’s ideas, which held more sway over the First International than Marx’s own.

    Proudhon was critical of the capitalism of his day, but made his criticisms, along with his ideas for a better society, from the perspective of a specific class. Rather than analyze, as Marx did, the contradictions of capitalism through the figure of the proletarian, who possesses nothing but their own capacity to work, Proudhon understood capitalism from the perspective of an artisanal small producer, who owns and labors with their own small-scale means of production. In David McNally’s (1993) survey of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century radical political economy, he summarizes Proudhon’s beliefs. Proudhon “envisages a society [of] small independent producers—peasants and artisans—who own the products of their personal labour, and then enter into a series of equal market exchanges. Such a society will, he insists, eliminate profit and property, and ‘pauperism, luxury, oppression, vice, crime and hunger will disappear from our midst’” (140).

    For Proudhon, massive property accumulation of large firms and accompanying state collusion distorts these market exchanges. Under the prevailing system, he asserts in The Philosophy of Poverty, “there is irregularity and dishonesty in exchange” ([1847] 2012, 124) a problem exemplified by monopoly and its perversion of “all notions of commutative justice” (297). Monopoly permits unjust property extraction: Proudhon states in General Idea of the Revolution in the Nineteenth Century ([1851] 2003) that “the price of things is not proportionate to their VALUE: it is larger or smaller according to an influence which justice condemns, but the existing economic chaos excuses” (228). Exploitation becomes thereby a consequence of market disequilibria—the upward and downward deviations of price from value. It is a faulty market, warped by state intervention and too-powerful entrenched interests that is the cause of injustice. The Philosophy of Poverty details all manner of economic disaster caused by monopoly: “the interminable hours, disease, deformity, degradation, debasement, and all the signs of industrial slavery: all these calamities are born of monopoly” (290).

    As McNally’s (1993) work shows, blaming economic woes on “monopolists” and “middlemen” ran rife in popular critiques of political economy during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, leading many radicals to call for free trade as a solution to widespread poverty. Proudhon’s anarchism was part of this general tendency. In General Idea of the Revolution in the Nineteenth Century ([1851] 2003), he railed against “middlemen, commission dealers, promoters, capitalists, etc., who, in the old order of things, stand in the way of producer and consumer” (90). The exploiters worked by obstructing and manipulating the exchange of goods and services on the market.

    Proudhon’s particular view of economic injustice begets its own version of how best to change it. His revolutionary vision centers on the end of monopolies and currency reform, two ways that “monopolists” intervened in the smooth functioning of the market. He remained dedicated to the belief that the ills of capitalism arose from the concentrations of ownership creating unjust political power that could further distort the functioning of the market, and envisioned a market-based society where “political functions have been reduced to industrial functions, and that social order arises from nothing but transactions and exchanges” (1979, 11).

    Proudhon evinced a technological optimism that Marx would later criticize. From his petty producer standpoint, he believed technology would empower workers by overcoming the division of labor:

    Every machine may be defined as a summary of several operations, a simplification of powers, a condensation of labor, a reduction of costs. In all these respects machinery is the counterpart of division. Therefore through machinery will come a restoration of the parcellaire laborer, a decrease of toil for the workman, a fall in the price of his product, a movement in the relation of values, progress towards new discoveries, advancement of the general welfare. ([1847] 2012, 167)

    While Proudhon recognized some of the dynamics by which machinery could immiserate workers through deskilling and automating their work, he remained strongly skeptical of organized measures to ameliorate this condition. He rejected compensating the unemployed through taxation because it would “visit ostracism upon new inventions and establish communism by means of the bayonet” ([1847] 2012, 207); he also criticized employing out-of-work laborers in public works programs. Technological development should remain unregulated, leading to eventual positive outcomes: “The guarantee of our liberty lies in the progress of our torture” (209).

    Marx’s Critique of Proudhon

    Marx, after attempting to influence Proudhon, became one of his most vehement critics, attacking his rival’s arguments, both major and marginal. Marx had a very different understanding of the new industrial society of the nineteenth century. Marx ([1865] 2016) diagnosed his rival’s misrepresentations of capitalism as derived from a particular class basis. Proudhon’s theories emanated “from the standpoint and with the eyes of a French small-holding peasant (later petit bourgeois)” rather than the proletarian, who possesses nothing but labor-power, which must be exchanged for a wage from the capitalist.

    Since small producers own their own tools and depend largely on their own labor, they do not perceive any conflict between ownership of the means of production and labor: analysis from this standpoint, such as Proudhon’s, tends to collapse these categories together. Marx’s theorization of capitalism centered an emergent class of industrial proletarians, who, unlike small producers, owned nothing but their ability to sell their labor-power for a wage. Without any other means of survival, the proletarian could not experience the “labor market” as a meeting of equals coming to a mutually beneficial exchange of commodities, but as an abstraction from the concrete truth that working for whatever wage offered was compulsory, rather than a voluntary contract. Further, it was this very market for labor-power that, in the guise of equal exchange of commodities, helped to obscure that capitalist profit depended on extracting value from workers beyond what their wages compensated. This surplus value emerged in the production process, not, as Proudhon argued, at a later point where the goods produced were bought and sold. Without a conception of a contradiction between ownership and labor, the petty producer standpoint cannot see exploitation occurring in production.

    Instead, Proudhon saw exploitation occurring after production, during exchanges on the market distorted by unfair monopolies held intact through state intervention, with which petty producers could not compete. However, Marx ([1867] 1992) demonstrated that “monopolies” were simply the outcome of the concentration of capital due to competition: in his memorable wording from Capital, “One capitalist always strikes down many others” (929). As producers compete and more and more producers fail and are proletarianized, capital is held in fewer and fewer hands. In other words, monopolies are a feature, not a bug, of market economies.

    Proudhon’s misplaced emphasis on villainous monopolies is part of a greater error in diagnosing the momentous changes in the nineteenth-century economy: a neglect of the centrality of massive industrial-scale production to mature capitalism. In the first volume of Capital, Marx ([1867] 1992) argues that petty production was a historical phenomenon that would give way to capitalist production: “Private property which is personally earned, i.e., which is based, as it were, on the fusing together of the isolated, independent working individual with the conditions of his labour, is supplanted by capitalist private property, which rests on exploitation of alien, but formally free labour” (928). As producers compete and more and more producers fail and are proletarianized, capital—and with it, labor—concentrates.

    However, petty production persisted alongside industrial capitalism in ways that masked how the continued existence of the former relies on the latter. Under capitalism, labor, through commodification of labor-power through the wage relationship, is transformed from concrete acts of labor into labor in the abstract in the system of industrial production for exchange. This abstract labor, the basis of surplus value, is for Marx the “specific social form of labour” in capitalism (Murray 2016, 124). Without understanding abstract labor, Proudhon could not perceive how capitalism functioned as not simply a means of producing profit, but a system of structuring all labor in society.

    The importance of abstract labor to capitalism also meant that Proudhon’s plans to reform currency by making it worth labor-time would fail. As Marx ([1847] 1973) puts it in his book-length critique of Proudhon, “in large-scale industry, Peter is not free to fix for himself the time of his labor, for Peter’s labor is nothing without the co-operation of all the Peters and all the Pauls who make up the workshop” (77). In other words, because commodities under capitalism are manufactured through a complex division of labor, with different workers exercising differing levels of labor productivity, it is impossible to apportion specific quantities of time to specific labors on individual commodities. Without an understanding of the role of abstract labor to capitalist production, Proudhon could simply not grapple with the actual mechanisms of capitalism’s structuring of labor in society, and so, could not develop plans to overcome it. This overcoming could only occur through a political intervention that sought to organize production from the point of view of its socialization, not, as Proudhon believed, reforming elements of the exchange system to preserve individual producers.

    The Roots of Digital Proudhonism

    Many of Proudhon’s arguments were revived among digital radicals and reformers during the battles over copyright precipitated by networked digital technologies during the 1990s, of which Napster is the exemplary case. The techno-optimistic belief that the Internet would provide radical democratic change in cultural production took on a highly Proudhonian cast. The internet would “empower creators” by eliminating “middlemen” and “gatekeepers” such as record labels and distributors, who were the ultimate source of exploitation, and allowing exchange to happen on a “peer-to-peer” basis. By subverting the “monopoly” granted by copyright protections, radical change would happen on the basis of increased potential for voluntary market exchange, not political or social revolution.

    Siva Vaidhyanathan’s Anarchist in the Library (2005) is a representative example of this argument, and made with explicit appeals to anarchist philosophy. According to Vaidhyanathan, “the new [peer-to-peer] technology evades the professional gatekeepers, flattening the production and distribution pyramid…. Digitization and networking have democratized the production of music” (48). This democratization by peer-to-peer distribution threatens “oligarchic forces such as global entertainment conglomerates” even as it works to “empower artists in new ways and connect communities of fans” (102).

    The seeds of Digital Proudhonism were planted earlier than Napster, derived from the beliefs and practices of the Free Software movement. Threatened by intellectual property protections that signaled the corporatization of software development, the academics and amateurs of the Free Software movement developed alternative licenses that would keep software code “open” and thus able to share and build upon by any interested coder. This successfully protected the autonomous and collaborative working practices of the group. The movement’s major success was the Linux operating system, collaboratively built by a distributed team of mostly voluntary programmers who created a free alternative to the proprietary systems of Microsoft and Apple.

    Linux indicated to those examining the front lines of technological development that, far from just a software development model, Free Software could actually be an alternative mode of production, and even a harbinger of democratic revolution. The triumph of an unpaid network-based community of programmers creating a free and open product in the face of the IP-dependent monopoly like Microsoft seemed to realize one of Marx’s ([1859] 1911) technologically determinist prophecies from A Contribution to the Critique of Political Economy:

    At a certain stage of their development, the material forces of production in society come into conflict with the existing relations of production or—what is but a legal expression of the same thing—with the property relations within which they had been at work before. From forms of development of the forces of production these relations turn into their fetters. Then comes the era of social revolution. (12)

    The Free Software movement provoked a wave of political initiatives and accompanying theorizations of a new digital economy based on what Yochai Benkler (2006) called “commons-based peer production.” With networked personal computers so widely distributed, “[t]he material requirements for effective information production and communication are now owned by numbers of individuals several orders of magnitude larger than the number of owners of the basic means of information production and exchange a mere two decades ago” (4). Suddenly, and almost as if by accident, the means of production were in the hands, not of corporations or states, but of individuals: a perfect encapsulation of the petty producer economy.

    The classification of file sharing technologies such as Napster as “peer-to-peer” solidified this view. Napster’s design allowed users to exchange MP3 files by linking “peers” to one another, without storing files on Napster’s own servers. This performed two useful functions. It dispersed the server load for hosting and exchanging files among the computers and connections of Napster’s user base, alleviating what would have been massive bandwidth expenses. It also provided Napster with a defense against charges of infringement, as its own servers were not involved in copying files. This design might offer it protection from the charges that had doomed the site MP3.com, which had hosted user files.

    While Napster’s suggestion that corporate structures for the distribution of culture could be supplanted by a voluntary federation of “peers” was important, it was ultimately a mystification. Not only did the courts find Napster liable for facilitating infringement, but the flat, “decentralized” topology of Napster still relied on the company’s central listing service to connect peers. Yet the ideological impact was profound. A law review article by Raymond Ku (2002), the then-director of the Institute of Law, Science & Technology, Seton Hall University School of Law is illustrative of both the nature of the arguments and how widespread and respectable they became in the post-Napster era: “the argument for copyright is primarily an argument for protecting content distributors in a world in which middlemen are obsolete. Copyright is no longer needed to encourage distribution because consumers themselves build and fund the distribution channels for digital content” (263). Clay Shirky’s (2008) paeans to “the mass amateurization of efforts previously reserved for media professionals” sound a similar note (55), presenting a technologically functionalist explanation for the existence of “gatekeeper” media industries: “It used to be hard to move words, images, and sounds from creator to consumer… The commercial viability of most media businesses involves providing those solutions, so preservation of the original problems became an economic imperative. Now, though, the problems of production, reproduction, and distribution are much less serious” (59). This narrative has remained persistent years after the brief flourishing of Napster: “the rise of peer-to-peer distribution systems… make middlemen hard to identify, if not cutting them out of the process altogether” (Kernfeld 2011, 217).

    This situation was given an emancipatory political valence by intellectuals associated with copyright reform. Eager to protect an emerging sector of cultural production founded on sampling, remixing and file sharing, they described the accumulation of digital information and media online as a “commons,” which could be treated in an alternative way from forms of private property. Due to the lack of rivalry among digital goods (Benkler 2006, 36), users do not deplete the common stock, and so should benefit from a laxer approach to property rights. Law professor Lawrence Lessig (2004) started an initiative, Creative Commons, dedicated to establishing new licenses that would “build a layer of reasonable copyright on top of the extremes that now reign” (282). Part of Lessig’s argument for Creative Commons classifies media production and distribution, such as making music videos or mashups, as a “form of speech.” Therefore, copyright acted as unjust government regulation, and so must be resisted. “It is always a bad deal for the government to get into the business of regulating speech markets,” Lessig argues, even going so far as to raise the specter of communist authoritarianism: “It is the Soviet Union under Brezhnev” (128). Here Lessig performs a delicate rhetorical sleight of hand: the positioning cultural production as speech, it reifies a vision of such production as emanating from a solitary, individual producer who must remain unencumbered when bringing that speech to market.

    Cory Doctorow (2014), a poster child of achievement in the new peer-to-peer world (in Free Culture, Lessig boasts of Doctorow’s successful promotional strategy of giving away electronic copies of his books for free), argues from a pro-market position against middlemen in his latest book: “copyright exists to protect middlemen, retailers, and distributors from being out-negotiated by creators and their investors” (48). While the argument remains the same, some targets have shifted: “investors” are “publishers, studios, record labels” while “intermediaries” are the platforms of distribution: “a distributor, a website like YouTube, a retailer, an e-commerce site like Amazon, a cinema owner, a cable operator, a TV station or network” (27).

    While the thrust of these critiques of copyright focus on egregious overreach by the culture industries and their assault upon all manner of benign noncommercial activity, they also reveal a vision of an alternative cultural economy of independent producers who, while not necessarily anti-capitalist, can escape the clutches of massive centralized corporations through networked digital technologies. This facilitates both economic and political freedom via independence from control and regulation, and maximum opportunities on the market. “By giving artists the tools and technologies to take charge of their own production, marketing, and distribution, digitization underscored the disequilibrium of traditional record contracts and offered what for many is a preferable alternative” (Sinnreich 2013, 124). As it so often does, the fusion of ownership and labor characteristic of the petty producer standpoint, the structure of feeling of the independent artisan, articulates itself through the mantra of “Do It Yourself.”

    These analyses and polemics reproduce the Proudhonist vision of an alternative to existing digital capitalism. Individual independent creators will achieve political autonomy and economic benefit through the embrace digital network technologies, as long as these creators are allowed to compete fairly with incumbents. Rather than insist on collective regulation of production, Digital Proudhonism seeks forms of deregulation, such as copyright reform, that will chip away at the existence of “monopoly” power of existing media corporations that fetters the market chances of these digital artisans.

    Digital Proudhonism Today

    Rooted in emergent digital methods of cultural production, the first wave of Digital Proudhonism shored up its petty producer standpoint through a rhetoric that centered the figure of the artist or “creator.” The contemporary term is the more expansive “the creative,” which lionizes a larger share of knowledge workers of the digital economy. As Sarah Brouillette (2009) notes, thinkers from management gurus such as Richard Florida to radical autonomist Marxist theorists such as Paolo Virno “broadly agree that over the past few decades more work has become comparable to artists’ work.” As a kind of practical consciousness, Digital Proudhonism easily spreads through the channels of the so-called “creative class,” its politics and worldview traveling under a host of other endeavors. These initiatives self-consciously seek to realize the ideals of Proudhonism in fields beyond the confines of music and film, with impact in manufacturing, social organization, and finance.

    The maker movement is one prominent translation of Digital Proudhonism into a challenge to the contemporary organization of production, with allegedly radical effects on politics and economics. With the advent of new production technologies, such as 3D printers and digital design tools, “makers” can take the democratizing promise of the digital commons into the physical world. Just as digital technology supposedly distributes the means of production of culture across a wider segment of the population, so too will it spread manufacturing blueprints, blowing apart the restrictions of patents the same way Napster tore copyright asunder. “The process of making physical stuff has started to look more like the process of making digital stuff,” claims Chris Anderson (2012), author of Makers: The New Industrial Revolution (25). This has a radical effect: a realization of the goals of socialism via the unfolding of technology and the granting of access. “If Karl Marx were here today, his jaw would be on the floor. Talk about ‘controlling the tools of production’: you (you!) can now set factories into motion with a mouse click” (26). The key to this revolution is the ability of open-source methods to lower costs, thereby fusing the roles of inventor and entrepreneur (27).

    Anderson’s “new industrial revolution” is one of a distinctly Proudhonian cast. Digital design tools are “extending manufacturing to a hugely expanded population of producers—the existing manufacturers plus a lot of regular folk who are becoming entrepreneurs” (41). The analogy to the rise of remix culture and amateur production lionized by Lessig is deliberate: “Sound familiar? It’s exactly what happened with the Web” (41). Anderson envisions the maker movement to be akin to the nineteenth century petty producers represented by Proudhon’s views: Cottage industries “were closer to what a Maker-driven New Industrial Revolution might be than are the big factories we normally associate with manufacturing” (49). Anderson’s preference for the small producer over the large factory echoes Proudhon. The subject of this revolution is not the proletarian at work in the large factory, but the artisan who owns their own tools.

    A more explicitly radical perspective comes from the avowedly Proudhonist Center for a Stateless Society (C4SS), a “left market anarchist think tank and media center” deeply conversant in libertarian and so-called anarcho-capitalist economic theory. As with Anderson, C4SS subscribes to the techno-utopian potentials for a new arrangement of production driven by digital technology, which has the potential to reduce prices on goods, making them within the reach of anyone (once again, music piracy is held up as a precursor). However, this potential has not been realized because “economic ruling classes are able to enclose the increased efficiencies from new technology as a source of rents mainly through artificial scarcities, artificial property rights, and entry barriers enforced by the state” (Carson 2015a). Monopolies, enforced by the state, have “artificially” distorted free market transactions.

    These monopolies, in the form of intellectual property rights, are preventing a proper Proudhonian revolution in which everyone would control their own individual production process. “The main source of continued corporate control of the production process is all those artificial property rights such as patents, trademarks, and business licenses, that give corporations a monopoly on the conditions under which the new technologies can be used” (Carson 2015a). However, once these artificial monopolies are removed, corporations will lose their power and we can have a world of “small neighborhood cooperative shops manufacturing for local barter-exchange networks in return for the output of other shops, of home microbakeries and microbreweries, surplus garden produce, babysitting and barbering, and the like” (Carson 2015a).

    This revolution is a quiet one, requiring no strikes or other confrontations with capitalists. Instead, the answer is to create this new economy within the larger one, and hollow it out from the inside:

    Seizing an old-style factory and holding it against the forces of the capitalist state is a lot harder than producing knockoffs in a garage factory serving the members of a neighborhood credit-clearing network, or manufacturing open-source spare parts to keep appliances running. As the scale of production shifts from dozens of giant factories owned by three or four manufacturing firms, to hundreds of thousands of independent neighborhood garage factories, patent law will become unenforceable. (Carson 2015b)

    As Marx pointed out long ago, such petty producer fantasies of individually owned and operated manufacturing ironically rely upon the massive amounts of surplus generated from proletarians working in large-scale factories. The devices and infrastructures of the internet itself, as described by Nick Dyer-Witheford (2015) in his appropriately titled Cyber-Proletariat, are an obvious example. But proletarian labor also appears in the Digital Proudhonists’ own utopian fantasies. Anderson, describing the change in innovation wrought by the internet, describes how his grandfather’s invention of a sprinkler system would have gone differently. “When it came time to make more than a handful of his designs, he wouldn’t have begged some manufacturer to license his ideas, he would have done it himself. He would have uploaded his design files to companies that could make anything from tens to tens of thousands for him, even drop-shipping them directly to customers” (15).  These “companies” of course are staffed by workers very different from “makers,” who work in facilities of mass production. Their labor is obscured by an influential ideology of artisans who believe themselves reliant on nothing but a personal computer and their own creativity.

    A recent Guardian column by Paul Mason, anti-capitalist journalist and author of the techno-optimistic Postcapitalism serves as a further example. Mason (2016) argues, similarly to the C4SS, that intellectual property is the glue holding together massive corporations, and the key to their power over production. Simply by giving up on patents, as recommended by Anderson, Proudhonists will outflank capitalism on the market. His example is the “revolutionary” business model of the craft brewery chain BrewDog, who “open-sourced its recipe collection” by releasing the information publicly, unlike its larger corporate competitors. For Mason, this is an astonishing act of economic democracy: armed with BrewDog’s recipes, “All you would need to convert them from homebrew approximations to the actual stuff is a factory, a skilled workforce, some raw materials and a sheaf of legal certifications.” In other words, all that is needed to achieve postcapitalism is capitalism precisely as Marx described it.

    The pirate fantasies of subverting monopolies extend beyond the initiatives of makers. The Digital Proudhonist belief in revolutionary change rooted in individual control of production and exchange on markets liberated from incumbents such as corporations and the state drives much of the innovation on the margins of tech. A recent treatise on the digital currency Bitcoin lauds Napster’s ability to “cut out the middlemen,” likening the currency to the file sharing technology (Kelly 2014, 11). “It is a quantum leap in the peer-to-peer network phenomenon. Bitcoin is to value transfer what Napster was to music” (33). Much like the advocates of digital currencies, Proudhon believed that state control of money was an unfair manipulation of the market, and sought to develop alternative currencies and banks rooted in labor-time, a belief that Marx criticized for its misunderstanding of the role of abstract labor in production.

    In this way, Proudhon and his beliefs fit naturally into the dominant ideologies surrounding Bitcoin and other cryptocurrencies: that economic problems stem from the conspiratorial manipulation of “fiat” currency by national governments and financial organizations such as the Federal Reserve. In light of recent analyses that suggest that Bitcoin functions less as a means of exchange than as a sociotechnical formation to which an array of faulty right-wing beliefs about economics adheres (Golumbia 2016), and the revelation that contemporary fascist groups rely on Bitcoin and other cryptocurrency to fund their activities (Ebner 2018), it is clear that Digital Proudhonism exists comfortably beside the most reactionary ideologies. Historically, this was true of Proudhon’s own work as well. As Zeev Sternhell (1996) describes, the early twentieth-century French political organization the Cercle Proudhon were captivated by Proudhon’s opposition to Marxism, his distaste for democracy, and his anti-Semitism. According to Sternhell, the group was an influential source of French proto-fascist thought.

    Alternatives

    The goal of this paper is not to question the creativity of remix culture or the maker movement, or to indict their potentials for artistic expression, or negate all their criticisms of intellectual property. What I wish to criticize is the outsized economic and political claims made about it. These claims have an impact on policy, such as Obama’s “Nation of Makers” initiative (The White House Office of the Press Secretary 2016), which draws upon numerous federal agencies, hundreds of schools, as well as educational product companies to spark “a renaissance of American manufacturing and hardware innovation.” But further, like Marx, I not only think Proudhonism rests on incorrect analyses of cultural labor, but that such ideas lead to bad politics. As Astra Taylor (2014) extensively documents in The People’s Platform, for all the exclamations of new opportunities with the end of middlemen and gatekeepers, the creative economy is as difficult as it ever was for artists to navigate, noting that writers like Lessig have replaced the critique of the commodification of culture with arguments about state and corporate control (26-7).  Meanwhile, many of the fruits of this disintermediation have been plucked by an exploitative “sharing economy” whose platforms use “peer-to-peer” to subvert all manner of regulations; at least one commentator has invoked Napster’s storied ability to “cut out the middlemen” to describe AirBnB and Uber (Karabel 2014).

    Digital Proudhonism and its vision of federations of independent individual producers and creators (perhaps now augmented with the latest cryptographic tools) dominates the imagination of a radical challenge to digital capitalism. Its critiques of the corporate internet have become common sense. What kind of alternative radical vision is possible? Here I believe it is useful to return to the core of Marx’s critique of Proudhon.

    Marx saw that the unromantic labor of proletarians, combining varying levels of individual productivity within the factory through machines which themselves are the product of social labor, capitalism’s dynamics create a historically novel form of production—social production—along with new forms of culture and social relations. For Marx ([1867] 1992), this was potentially the basis for an economy beyond capitalism. To attempt to move “back” to individual production was reactionary: “As soon as the workers are turned into proletarians, and their means of labour into capital, as soon as the capitalist mode of production stands on its own feet, then the further socialization of labour and further transformation of the soil and other means of production into socially exploited and, therefore, communal means of production takes on a new form” (928).

    The socialization of production under the development of the means of production—the necessity of greater collaboration and the reliance on past labors in the form of machines—gives way to a radical redefinition of the relationship to one’s output. No one can claim a product was made by them alone; rather, production demands to be recognized as social. Describing the socialization of labor through industrialization in Socialism: Utopian and Scientific, Engels ([1880] 2008) states, “The yarn, the cloth, the metal articles that now came out of the factory were the joint product of many workers, through whose hands they had successively to pass before they were ready. No one person could say of them: ‘I made that; this is my product’” (56). To put it in the language of cultural production, there can be no author. Or, in another implicit recognition that the work of today relies on the work of many others, past and present: everything is a remix.

    Or instead of a remix, a “vortex,” to use the language of Nick Dyer-Witheford (2015), whose Cyber-Proletariat reminds us that the often-romanticized labor of digital creators and makers is but one stratum among many that makes up digital culture. The creative economy is a relatively privileged sector in an immense global “factory” made up of layers of formal and informal workers operating at the point of production, distribution and consumption, from tantalum mining to device manufacture to call center work to app development. The romance of “DIY” obscures the reality that nothing digital is done by oneself: it is always already a component of a larger formation of socialized labor.

    The labor of digital creatives and innovators, sutured as it is to a technical apparatus fashioned from dead labor and meant for producing commodities for profit, is therefore already socialized. While some of this socialization is apparent in peer production, much of it is mystified through the real abstraction of commodity fetishism, which masks socialization under wage relations and contracts. Rather than further rely on these contracts to better benefit digital artisans, a Marxist politics of digital culture would begin from the fact of socialization, and as Radhika Desai (2011) argues, take seriously Marx’s call for “a general organization of labour in society” via political organizations such as unions and labor parties (212). Creative workers could align with others in the production chain as a class of laborers rather than as an assortment of individual producers, and form the kinds of organizations, such as unions, that have been the vehicles of class politics, with the aim of controlling society’s means of production, not simply one’s “own” tools or products. These would be bonds of solidarity, not bonds of market transactions. Then the apparatus of digital cultural production might be controlled democratically, rather than by the despotism of markets and private profit.

    _____

    Gavin Mueller Gavin Mueller holds a PhD in Cultural Studies from George Mason University. He teaches in the New Media and Digital Culture program at the University of Amsterdam.

    Back to the essay

    _____

    Notes

    [1] The Pirate Bay, the largest and most antagonistic site of the peer-to-peer movement, has founders who identified as libertarian, socialist, and apolitical, respectively, and acquired funding from Carl Lundström, an entrepreneur associated with far-right movements (Schwartz 2014, 142).

    _____

    Works Cited

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  • Zachary Loeb – What Technology Do We Really Need? – A Critique of the 2016 Personal Democracy Forum

    Zachary Loeb – What Technology Do We Really Need? – A Critique of the 2016 Personal Democracy Forum

    by Zachary Loeb

    ~

    Technological optimism is a dish best served from a stage. Particularly if it’s a bright stage in front of a receptive and comfortably seated audience, especially if the person standing before the assembled group is delivering carefully rehearsed comments paired with compelling visuals, and most importantly if the stage is home to a revolving set of speakers who take turns outdoing each other in inspirational aplomb. At such an event, even occasional moments of mild pessimism – or a rogue speaker who uses their fifteen minutes to frown more than smile – serve to only heighten the overall buoyant tenor of the gathering. From TED talks to the launching of the latest gizmo by a major company, the person on a stage singing the praises of technology has become a familiar cultural motif. And it is a trope that was alive and drawing from that well at the 2016 Personal Democracy Forum, the theme of which was “The Tech We Need.”

    Over the course of two days some three-dozen speakers and a similar number of panelists gathered to opine on the ways in which technology is changing democracy to a rapt and appreciative audience. The commentary largely aligned with the sanguine spirit animating the founding manifesto of the Personal Democracy Forum (PDF) – which frames the Internet as a potent force set to dramatically remake and revitalize democratic society. As the manifesto boldly decrees, “the realization of ‘Personal Democracy,’ where everyone is a full participant, is coming” and it is coming thanks to the Internet. The two days of PDF 2016 consisted of a steady flow of intelligent, highly renowned, well-meaning speakers expounding on the conference’s theme to an audience largely made up of bright caring individuals committed to answering that call. To attend an event like PDF and not feel moved, uplifted or inspired by the speakers would be a testament to an empathic failing. How can one not be moved? But when one’s eyes are glistening and when one’s heart is pounding it is worth being wary of the ideology in which one is being baptized.

    To critique an event like the Personal Democracy Forum – particularly after having actually attended it – is something of a challenge. After all, the event is truly filled with genuine people delivering (mostly) inspiring talks. There is something contagious about optimism, especially when it presents itself as measured optimism. And besides, who wants to be the jerk grousing and grumbling after an activist has just earned a standing ovation? Who wants to cross their arms and scoff that the criticism being offered is precisely the type that serves to shore up the system being criticized? Pessimists don’t often find themselves invited to the after party. Thus, insofar as the following comments – and those that have already been made – may seem prickly and pessimistic it is not meant as an attack upon any particular speaker or attendee. Many of those speakers truly were inspiring (and that is meant sincerely), many speakers really did deliver important comments (that is also meant sincerely), and the goal here is not to question the intentions of PDF’s founders or organizers. Yet prominent events like PDF are integral to shaping the societal discussions surrounding technology – and therefore it is essential to be willing to go beyond the inspirational moments and ask: what is really being said here?

    For events like PDF do serve to advance an ideology, whether they like it or not. And it is worth considering what that ideology means, even if it forces one to wipe the smile from one’s lips. And when it comes to PDF much of its ideology can be discovered simply by dissecting the theme for the 2016 conference: “The Tech We Need.”

    “The Tech”

    What do you (yes, you) think of when you hear the word technology? After all, it is a term that encompasses a great deal, which is one of the reasons why Leo Marx (1997) was compelled to describe technology as a “hazardous concept.” Eyeglasses are technology, but so too is Google Glass. A hammer is technology, and so too is a smart phone. In other words, when somebody says “technology is X” or “technology does Q” or “technology will result in R” it is worth pondering whether technology really is, does or results in those things, or if what is being discussed is really a particular type of technology in a particular context. Granted, technology remains a useful term, it is certainly a convenient shorthand (one which very many people [including me] are guilty of occasionally deploying), but in throwing the term technology about so casually it is easy to obfuscate as much as one clarifies. At PDF it seemed as though a sentence was not complete unless it included a noun, a verb and the word technology – or “tech.” Yet what was meant by “tech” at PDF almost always meant the Internet or a device linked to the Internet – and qualifying this by saying “almost” is perhaps overly generous.

    Thus the Internet (as such), web browsers, smart phones, VR, social networks, server farms, encryption, other social networks, apps, and websites all wound up being pleasantly melted together into “technology.” When “technology” encompasses so much a funny thing begins to happen – people speak effusively about “technology” and only name specific elements when they want to single something out for criticism. When technology is so all encompassing who can possibly criticize technology? And what would it mean to criticize technology when it isn’t clear what is actually meant by the term? Yes, yes, Facebook may be worthy of mockery and smart phones can be used for surveillance but insofar as the discussion is not about the Internet but “technology” on what grounds can one say: “this stuff is rubbish”? For even if it is clear that the term “technology” is being used in a way that focuses on the Internet if one starts to seriously go after technology than one will inevitably be confronted with the question “but aren’t hammers also technology?” In short, when a group talks about “the tech” but by “the tech” only means the Internet and the variety of devices tethered to it, what happens is that the Internet appears as being synonymous with technology. It isn’t just a branch or an example of technology, it is technology! Or to put this in sharper relief: at a conference about “the tech we need” held in the US in 2016 how can one avoid talking about the technology that is needed in the form of water pipes that don’t poison people? The answer: by making it so that the term “technology” does not apply to such things.

    The problem is that when “technology” is used to only mean one set of things it muddles the boundaries of what those things are, and what exists outside of them. And while it does this it allows people to confidently place trust in a big category, “technology,” whereas they would probably have been more circumspect if they were just being asked to place trust in smart phones. After all, “the Internet will save us” doesn’t have quite the same seductive sway as “technology will save us” – even if the belief is usually put more eloquently than that. When somebody says “technology will save us” people can think of things like solar panels and vaccines – even if the only technology actually being discussed is the Internet. Here, though, it is also vital to approach the question of “the tech” with some historically grounded modesty in mind. For the belief that technology is changing the world and fundamentally altering democracy is nothing new. The history of technology (as an academic field) is filled with texts describing how a new tool was perceived as changing everything – from the compass to the telegraph to the phonograph to the locomotive to the [insert whatever piece of technology you (the reader) can think of]. And such inventions were often accompanied by an, often earnest, belief that these inventions would improve everything for the better! Claims that the Internet will save us, invoke déjà vu for those with a familiarity with the history of technology. Carolyn Marvin’s masterful study When Old Technologies Were New (1988) examines the way in which early electrical communications methods were seen at the time of their introduction, and near the book’s end she writes:

    Predictions that strife would cease in a world of plenty created by electrical technology were clichés breathed by the influential with conviction. For impatient experts, centuries of war and struggle testified to the failure of political efforts to solve human problems. The cycle of resentment that fueled political history could perhaps be halted only in a world of electrical abundance, where greed could not impede distributive justice. (206)

    Switch out the words ”electrical technology” for “Internet technology” and the above sentences could apply to the present (and the PDF forum) without further alterations. After all, PDF was certainly a gathering of “the influential” and of “impatient experts.”

    And whenever “tech” and democracy are invoked in the same sentence it is worth pondering whether the tech is itself democratic, or whether it is simply being claimed that the tech can be used for democratic purposes. Lewis Mumford wrote at length about the difference between what he termed “democratic” and “authoritarian” technics – in his estimation “democratic” systems were small scale and manageable by individuals, whereas “authoritarian” technics represented massive systems of interlocking elements where no individual could truly assert control. While Mumford did not live to write about the Internet, his work makes it very clear that he did not consider computer technologies to belong to the “democratic” lineage. Thus, to follow from Mumford, the Internet appears as a wonderful example of an “authoritarian” technic (it is massive, environmentally destructive, turns users into cogs, runs on surveillance, cannot be controlled locally, etc…) – what PDF argues for is that this authoritarian technology can be used democratically. There is an interesting argument there, and it is one with some merit. Yet such a discussion cannot even occur in the confusing morass that one finds oneself in when “the tech” just means the Internet.

    Indeed, by meaning “the Internet” but saying “the tech” groups like PDF (consciously or not) pull a bait and switch whereby a genuine consideration of what “the tech we need” simply becomes a consideration of “the Internet we need.”

    “We”

    Attendees to the PDF conference received a conference booklet upon registration; it featured introductory remarks, a code of conduct, advertisements from sponsors, and a schedule. It also featured a fantastically jarring joke created through the wonders of, perhaps accidental, juxtaposition; however, to appreciate the joke one needed to open the booklet so as to be able to see the front and back cover simultaneously. Here is what that looked like:

    Personal Democracy Forum (2016)

    Get it?

    Hilarious.

    The cover says “The Tech We Need” emblazoned in blue over the faces of the conference speakers, and the back is an advertisement for Microsoft stating: “the future is what we make it.” One almost hopes that the layout was intentional. For, who the heck is the “we” being discussed? Is it the same “we”? Are you included in that “we”? And this is a question that can be asked of each of those covers independently of the other: when PDF says “we” who is included and who is excluded? When Microsoft says “we” who is included and who is excluded? Of course, this gets muddled even more when you consider that Microsoft was the “presenting sponsor” for PDF and that many of the speakers at PDF have funding ties to Microsoft. The reason this is so darkly humorous is that there is certainly an argument to be made that “the tech we need” has no place for mega-corporations like Microsoft, while at the same time the booklet assures that “the future is what we [Microsoft] make it.” In short: the future is what corporations like Microsoft will make it…which might be very different from the kind of tech we need.

    In considering the “we” of PDF it is worth restating that this is a gathering of well-meaning individuals who largely seem to want to approach the idea of “we” with as much inclusivity as possible. Yet defining a “we” is always fraught, speaking for a “we” is always dangerous, and insofar as one can think of PDF with any kind of “we” (or “us”) in mind the only version of the group that really emerges is one that leans heavily towards describing the group actually present at the event. And while one can certainly speak about the level (or lack) of diversity at the PDF event – the “we” who came together at PDF is not particularly representative of the world. This was also brought into interesting relief in some other amusing ways: throughout the event one heard numerous variations of the comment “we all have smart phones” – but this did not even really capture the “we” of PDF. While walking down the stairs to a session one day I clearly saw a man (wearing a conference attendee badge) fiddling with a flip-phone – I suppose he wasn’t included in the “we” of “we all have smart phones.” But I digress.

    One encountered further issues with the “we” when it came to the political content of the forum. While the booklet states, and the hosts repeated over and over, that the event was “non-partisan” such a descriptor is pretty laughable. Those taking to the stage were a procession of people who had cut their teeth working for MoveOn and the activists represented continually self-identified as hailing from the progressive end of the spectrum. The token conservative speaker who stepped onto the stage even made a self-deprecating joke in which she recognized that she was one of only a handful (if that) of Republicans present. So, again, who is missing from this “we”? One can be a committed leftist and genuinely believe that a figure like Donald Trump is a xenophobic demagogue – and still recognize that some of his supporters might have offered a very interesting perspective to the PDF conversation. After all, the Internet (“the tech”) has certainly been used by movements on the right as well – and used quite effectively at that. But this part of a national “we” was conspicuously absent from the forum even if they are not nearly so absent from Twitter, Facebook, or the population of people owning smart phones. Again, it is in no way shape or form an endorsement of anything that Trump has said to point out that when a forum is held to discuss the Internet and democracy that it is worth having the people you disagree with present.

    Another question of the “we” that is worth wrestling with revolves around the way in which events like PDF involve those who offer critical viewpoints. If, as is being argued here, PDF’s basic ideology is that the Internet (“the tech”) is improving people’s lives and will continue to do so (leading towards “personal democracy”) – it is important to note that PDF welcomed several speakers who offered accounts of some of the shortcomings of the Internet. Figures including Sherry Turkle, Kentaro Toyama, Safiya Noble, Kate Crawford, danah boyd, and Douglas Rushkoff all took the stage to deliver some critical points of view – and yet in incorporating such voices into the “we” what occurs is that these critiques function less as genuine retorts and more as safety valves that just blow off a bit of steam. Having Sherry Turkle (not to pick on her) vocally doubt the empathetic potential of the Internet just allows the next speaker (and countless conference attendees) to say “well, I certainly don’t agree with Sherry Turkle.” Nevertheless, one of the best ways to inoculate yourself against the charge of unthinking optimism is to periodically turn the microphone over to a critic. But perhaps the most important things that such critics say are the ways in which they wind up qualifying their comments – thus Turkle says “I’m not anti-technology,” Toyama disparages Facebook only to immediately add “I love Facebook,” and fears regarding the threat posed by AI get laughed off as the paranoia of today’s “apex predators” (rich white men) being concerned that they will lose their spot at the top of the food chain. The environmental costs of the cloud are raised, the biased nature of algorithms is exposed – but these points are couched against a backdrop that says to the assembled technologists “do better” not “the Internet is a corporately controlled surveillance mall, and it’s overrated.” The heresies that are permitted are those that point out the rough edges that need to be rounded so that the pill can be swallowed. To return to the previous paragraph, this is not to say that PDF needs to invite John Zerzan or Chellis Glendinning to speak…but one thing that would certainly expose the weaknesses of the PDF “we” is to solicit viewpoints that genuinely come from outside of that “we.” Granted, PDF is more TED talk than FRED talk.

    And of course, and most importantly, one must think of the “we” that goes totally unheard. Yes, comments were made about the environmental cost of the cloud and passing phrases recognized mining – but PDF’s “we” seems to mainly refer to a “we” defined as those who use the Internet and Internet connected devices. Miners, those assembling high-tech devices, e-waste recyclers, and the other victims of those processes are only a hazy phantom presence. They are mentioned in passing, but not ever included fully in the “we.” PDF’s “the tech we need” is for a “we” that loves the Internet and just wants it to be even better and perhaps a bit nicer, while Microsoft’s we in “the future is what we make it” is a “we” that is committed to staying profitable. But amidst such statements there is an even larger group saying: “we are not being included.” That unheard “we” being the same “we” from the classic IWW song “we have fed you all for a thousand years” (Green et al 2016). And as the second line of that song rings out “and you hail us still unfed.”

    “Need”

    When one looks out upon the world it is almost impossible not to be struck by how much is needed. People need homes, people need –not just to be tolerated – but accepted, people need food, people need peace, people need stability, people need the ability to love without being subject to oppression, people need to be free from bigotry and xenophobia, people need…this list could continue with a litany of despair until we all don sackcloth. But do people need VR headsets? Do people need Facebook or Twitter? Do those in the possession of still-functioning high-tech devices need to trade them in every eighteen months? Of course it is important to note that technology does have an important role in meeting people’s needs – after all “shelter” refers to all sorts of technology. Yet, when PDF talks about “the tech we need” the “need” is shaded by what is meant by “the tech” and as was previously discussed that really means “the Internet.” Therefore it is fair to ask, do people really “need” an iPhone with a slightly larger screen? Do people really need Uber? Do people really need to be able to download five million songs in thirty seconds? While human history is a tale of horror it requires a funny kind of simplistic hubris to think that World War II could have been prevented if only everybody had been connected on Facebook (to be fair, nobody at PDF was making this argument). Are today’s “needs” (and they are great) really a result of a lack of technology? It seems that we already have much of the tech that is required to meet today’s needs, and we don’t even require new ways to distribute it. Or, to put it clearly at the risk of being grotesque: people in your city are not currently going hungry because they lack the proper app.

    The question of “need” flows from both the notion of “the tech” and “we” – and as was previously mentioned it would be easy to put forth a compelling argument that “the tech we need” involves water pipes that don’t poison people with lead, but such an argument is not made when “the tech” means the Internet and when the “we” has already reached the top of Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. If one takes a more expansive view of “the tech” and “we” than the range of what is needed changes accordingly. This issue – the way “tech” “we” and “need” intersect – is hardly a new concern. It is what prompted Ivan Illich (1973) to write, in Tools for Conviviality, that:

    People need new tools to work with rather than tools that ‘work’ for them. They need technology to make the most of the energy and imagination each has, rather than more well-programmed energy slaves. (10)

    Granted, it is certainly fair to retort “but who is the ‘we’ referred to by Illich” or “why can’t the Internet be the type of tool that Illich is writing about” – but here Illich’s response would be in line with the earlier referral to Mumford. Namely: accusations of technological determinism aside, maybe it’s fair to say that some technologies are oversold, and maybe the occasional emphasis on the way that the Internet helps activists serves as a patina that distracts from what is ultimately an environmentally destructive surveillance system. Is the person tethered to their smart phone being served by that device – or are they serving it? Or, to allow Illich to reply with his own words:

    As the power of machines increases, the role of persons more and more decreases to that of mere consumers. (11)

    Mindfulness apps, cameras on phones that can be used to film oppression, new ways of downloading music, programs for raising money online, platforms for connecting people on a political campaign – the user is empowered as a citizen but this empowerment tends to involve needing the proper apps. And therefore that citizen needs the proper device to run that app, and a good wi-fi connection, and… the list goes on. Under the ideology captured in the PDF’s “the tech we need” to participate in democracy becomes bound up with “to consume the latest in Internet innovation.” Every need can be met, provided that it is the type of need, which the Internet can meet. Thus the old canard “to the person with a hammer every problem looks like a nail” finds its modern equivalent in “to the person with a smart phone and a good wi-fi connection, every problem looks like one that can be solved by using the Internet.” But as for needs? Freedom from xenophobia and oppression are real needs – undoubtedly – but the Internet has done a great deal to disseminate xenophobia and prop up oppressive regimes. Continuing to double down on the Internet seems like doing the same thing “we” have been doing and expecting different results because finally there’s an “app for that!”

    It is, again, quite clear that those assembled at PDF came together with well-meaning attitudes, but as Simone Weil (2010) put it:

    Intentions, by themselves, are not of any great importance, save when their aim is directly evil, for to do evil the necessary means are always within easy reach. But good intentions only count when accompanied by the corresponding means for putting them into effect. (180)

    The ideology present at PDF emphasizes that the Internet is precisely “the means” for the realization of its attendees’ good intentions. And those who took to the stage spoke rousingly of using Facebook, Twitter, smart phones, and new apps for all manner of positive effects – but hanging in the background (sometimes more clearly than at other times) is the fact that these systems also track their users’ every move and can be used just as easily by those with very different ideas as to what “positive effects” look like. The issue of “need” is therefore ultimately a matter not simply of need but of “ends” – but in framing things in terms of “the tech we need” what is missed is the more difficult question of what “ends” do we seek. Instead “the tech we need” subtly shifts the discussion towards one of “means.” But, as Jacques Ellul, recognized the emphasis on means – especially technological ones – can just serve to confuse the discussion of ends. As he wrote:

    It must always be stressed that our civilization is one of means…the means determine the ends, by assigning us ends that can be attained and eliminating those considered unrealistic because our means do not correspond to them. At the same time, the means corrupt the ends. We live at the opposite end of the formula that ‘the ends justify the means.’ We should understand that our enormous present means shape the ends we pursue. (Ellul 2004, 238)

    The Internet and the raft of devices and platforms associated with it are a set of “enormous present means” – and in celebrating these “means” the ends begin to vanish. It ceases to be a situation where the Internet is the mean to a particular end, and instead the Internet becomes the means by which one continues to use the Internet so as to correct the current problems with the Internet so that the Internet can finally achieve the… it is a snake eating its own tail.

    And its own tale.

    Conclusion: The New York Ideology

    In 1995, Richard Barbrook and Andy Cameron penned an influential article that described what they called “The Californian Ideology” which they characterized as

    promiscuously combin[ing] the free-wheeling spirit of the hippies and the entrepreneurial zeal of the yuppies. This amalgamation of opposites has been achieved through a profound faith in the emancipatory potential of the new information technologies. In the digital utopia, everybody will be both hip and rich. (Barbrook and Cameron 2001, 364)

    As the placing of a state’s name in the title of the ideology suggests, Barbrook and Cameron were setting out to describe the viewpoint that was underneath the firms that were (at that time) nascent in Silicon Valley. They sought to describe the mixture of hip futurism and libertarian politics that worked wonderfully in the boardroom, even if there was now somebody in the boardroom wearing a Hawaiian print shirt – or perhaps jeans and a hoodie. As companies like Google and Facebook have grown the “Californian Ideology” has been disseminated widely, and though such companies periodically issued proclamations about not being evil and claimed that connecting the world was their goal they maintained their utopian confidence in the “independence of cyberspace” while directing a distasteful gaze towards the “dinosaurs” of representative democracy that would dare to question their zeal. And though it is a more recent player in the game, one is hard-pressed to find a better example than Uber of the fact that this ideology is alive and well.

    The Personal Democracy Forum is not advancing the Californian Ideology. And though the event may have featured a speaker who suggested that the assembled “we” think of the “founding fathers” as start-up founders – the forum continually returned to the questions of democracy. While the Personal Democracy Forum shares the “faith in the emancipatory potential of the new information technologies” with Silicon Valley startups it seems less “free-wheeling” and more skeptical of “entrepreneurial zeal.” In other words, whereas Barbrook and Cameron spoke of “The Californian Ideology” what PDF makes clear is that there is also a “New York Ideology.” Wherein the ideological hallmark is an embrace of the positive potential of new information technologies tempered by the belief that such potential can best be reached by taming the excesses of unregulated capitalism. Where the Californian Ideology says “libertarian” the New York Ideology says “liberation.” Where the Californian Ideology celebrates capital the New York Ideology celebrates the power found in a high-tech enhanced capitol. The New York Ideology balances the excessive optimism of the Californian Ideology by acknowledging the existence of criticism, and proceeds to neutralize this criticism by making it part and parcel of the celebration of the Internet’s potential. The New York Ideology seeks to correct the hubris of the Californian Ideology by pointing out that it is precisely this hubris that turns many away from the faith in the “emancipatory potential.” If the Californian Ideology is broadcast from the stage at the newest product unveiling or celebratory conference, than the New York Ideology is disseminated from conferences like PDF and the occasional skeptical TED talk. The New York Ideology may be preferable to the Californian Ideology in a thousand ways – but ultimately it is the ideology that manifests itself in the “we” one encounters in the slogan “the tech we need.”

    Or, to put it simply, whereas the Californian Ideology is “wealth meaning,” the New York Ideology is “well-meaning.”

    Of course, it is odd and unfair to speak of either ideology as “Californian” or “New York.” California is filled with Californians who do not share in that ideology, and New York is filled with New Yorkers who do not share in that ideology either. Yet to dub what one encounters at PDF to be “The New York Ideology” is to indicate the way in which current discussions around the Internet are not solely being framed by “The Californian Ideology” but also by a parallel position wherein faith in Internet enabled solutions puts aside its libertarian sneer to adopt a democratic smile. One could just as easily call the New York Ideology the “Tech On Stage Ideology” or the “Civic Tech Ideology” – perhaps it would be better to refer to the Californian Ideology as the SV Ideology (silicon valley) and the New York Ideology as the CV ideology (civic tech). But if the Californian Ideology refers to the tech campus in Silicon Valley than the New York Ideology refers to the foundation based in New York – that may very well be getting much of its funding from the corporations that call Silicon Valley home. While Uber sticks with the Californian Ideology, companies like Facebook have begun transitioning to the New York Ideology so that they can have their panoptic technology and their playgrounds too. Whilst new tech companies emerging in New York (like Kickstarter and Etsy) make positive proclamations about ethics and democracy by making it seem that ethics and democracy are just more consumption choices that one picks from the list of downloadable apps.

    The Personal Democracy Forum is a fascinating event. It is filled with intelligent individuals who speak of democracy with unimpeachable sincerity, and activists who really have been able to use the Internet to advance their causes. But despite all of this, the ideological emphasis on “the tech we need” remains based upon a quizzical notion of “need,” a problematic concept of “we,” and a reductive definition of “tech.” For statements like “the tech we need” are not value neutral – and even if the surface ethics are moving and inspirational, sometimes a problematic ideology is most easily disseminated when it takes care to dispense with ideologues. And though the New York Ideology is much more subtle than the Californian Ideology – and makes space for some critical voices – it remains a vehicle for disseminating an optimistic faith that a technologically enhanced Moses shall lead us into the high-tech promised land.

    The 2016 Personal Democracy Forum put forth an inspirational and moving vision of “the tech we need.”

    But when it comes to promises of technological salvation, isn’t it about time that “we” stopped getting our hopes up?

    Coda

    I confess, I am hardly free of my own ideological biases. And I recognize that everything written here may simply be dismissed of by those who find it hypocritical that I composed such remarks on a computer and then posted them online. But I would say that the more we find ourselves using technology the more careful we must be that we do not allow ourselves to be used by that technology.

    And thus, I shall simply conclude by once more citing a dead, but prescient, pessimist:

    I have no illusions that my arguments will convince anyone. (Ellul 1994, 248)

    _____

    Zachary Loeb is a writer, activist, librarian, and terrible accordion player. He earned his MSIS from the University of Texas at Austin, an MA from the Media, Culture, and Communications department at NYU, and is currently working towards a PhD in the History and Sociology of Science department at the University of Pennsylvania. His research areas include media refusal and resistance to technology, ideologies that develop in response to technological change, and the ways in which technology factors into ethical philosophy – particularly in regards of the way in which Jewish philosophers have written about ethics and technology. Using the moniker “The Luddbrarian,” Loeb writes at the blog Librarian Shipwreck, where an earlier version of this post first appeared, and is a frequent contributor to The b2 Review Digital Studies section.

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    _____

    Works Cited

    • Barbrook, Richard and Andy Cameron. 2001. “The Californian Ideology.” In Peter Ludlow, ed., Crypto Anarchy, Cyberstates and Pirate Utopias. Cambridge: MIT Press. 363-387.
    • Ellul, Jacques. 2004. The Political Illusion. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock.
    • Ellul, Jacques. 1994. A Critique of the New Commonplaces. Eugene, OR: Wipf and Stock.
    • Green, Archie, David Roediger, Franklin Rosemont, and Salvatore Salerno. 2016. The Big Red Songbook: 250+ IWW Songs! Oakland, CA: PM Press.
    • Illich, Ivan. 1973. Tools for Conviviality. New York: Harper and Row.
    • Marvin, Carolyn. 1988. When Old Technologies Were New: Thinking About Electric Communication in the Late Nineteenth Century. New York: Oxford University Press.
    • Marx, Leo. 1997. “‘Technology’: The Emergence of a Hazardous Concept.” Social Research 64:3 (Fall). 965-988.
    • Mumford, Lewis. 1964. “Authoritarian and Democratic Technics.” in Technology and Culture, 5:1 (Winter). 1-8.
    • Weil, Simone. 2010. The Need for Roots. London: Routledge.
  • Richard Hill — The Root Causes of Internet Fragmentation

    Richard Hill — The Root Causes of Internet Fragmentation


    a review of Scott Malcomson, Splinternet: How Geopolitics and Commerce Are Fragmenting the World Wide Web
      (OR Books, 2016)
    by Richard Hill
    ~

    The implicit premise of this valuable book is that “we study the past to understand the present; we understand the present to guide the future.” In that light, the book makes a valuable contribution by offering a sound and detailed historical survey of aspects of the Internet which are not well-known nor easily accessible outside the realms of dedicated internet research. However, as explained below, the author has not covered some important aspects of the past and thus the work is incomplete as a guide to the future. This should not be taken as criticism, but as a call for the author, or other scholars, to complete the work.

    The book starts by describing how modern computers and computer networks evolved from the industrialization of war and in particular due to the advantages that could be gained by automating the complex mathematical calculations required for ballistics on the one hand (computers) and by speeding up communications between elements of armed forces on the other hand (networks). Given the effectiveness of ICTs for war, belligerents before, during, and after World War II heavily funded research and development of those technologies in the military context, even if much of the research was outsourced to the private sector.

    Malcomson documents how the early founders of what we now call computer science were based in the USA and were closely associated with US military efforts: “the development of digital computing was principally an unintended byproduct of efforts to improve the accuracy of gunfire against moving targets” (49).

    Chapter 1 ends with an account of how Cold War military concerns (especially so-called mutual assured destruction by nuclear weapons) led to the development of packet switched networks in order to interconnect powerful computers: ARPANET, which evolved to become the Internet.

    Chapter 2 explores a different, but equally important, facet of Internet history: the influence of the anti-authoritarian hacker culture, which started with early computer enthusiasts, and fully developed in the 1970s and 1980s, in particular in the West Coast (most famously documented in Steven Levy’s 1984 book Hackers: Heroes of the Computer Revolution). The book explains the origins of the venture capitalism that largely drove the development of ICTs (including the Internet) as private risk capital replaced state funding for research and development in ICTs.

    The book documents the development of the geek culture’s view that computers and networks should be “an instrument of personal liberation and create a frictionless, alternative world free from the oppressing state” (101). Malcomson explains how this led to the belief that the Internet should not be subject to normal laws, culminating in Barlow’s well known utopian “Declaration of the Independence of Cyberspace,” and explains how such ideas could not, and did not survive. The chapter concludes: “The subculture had lost the battle. Governments and large corporations would now shape the Internet” (137). But, as the book notes later (171), it was in fact primarily one government, the US government, that shaped the Internet. And, as Shawn Powers and Michael Jablonski explain in The Real Cyberwar, the US used its influence to further its own geopolitical and global economic goals.

    Chapter 3 explores the effects of globalization, the weakening of American power, the rise of competing powers, and the resulting tensions regarding US dominance of ICTs in general and the Internet in particular. It also covers the rise of policing of the Internet induced by fear of “terrorists, pedophiles, drug dealers, and money launderers” (153).

    We have come full circle: a technology initially designed for war is now once again used by the military to achieve its aims, the so-called “war on terror.” So there is a tension between three different forces, all of which were fundamental to the development of ICTs (including the Internet): the government, military, and security apparatus; more-or-less anarchic technologists; and dominant for-profit companies (which may have started small, but can quickly become very large and dominant – at least for a few years until they are displaced by newcomers).

    As the subtitle indicates, the book is mostly about the World Wide Web, so some of the other aspects of the history of the Internet are not covered. For example, there is no mention of the very significant commercial and political battles that took place between proponents of the Internet and proponents of the Open Systems Interconnection (OSI) suite of standards; this is a pity, because the residual effects of those battles are still being felt today. Nor does the book explore the reasons for and effects of the transition of the management of the Internet from the US Department of Defense to the US Department of Commerce (even if it correctly notes that the chief interest of the Clinton administration “was in a thriving Internet that would lead to new industries and economic growth” [133]).

    Malcomson explains well how there were four groups competing for influence in the late 1990s: technologists, the private sector, the US government, and other governments, and notes how the US government was in an impossible situation, since it could not credibly argue simultaneously that other governments (or intergovernmental organizations such as the ITU) should not influence the Internet while it itself formally supervised the management and administration of the domain name system (DNS). However, he does not explain how the origins of the DNS, its subsequent development, or how its management and administration were unilaterally hijacked by the US, leading to much of the international tension that has bedeviled discussions on Internet governance since 1998.

    Regarding the World Wide Web, the book does not discuss how the end-to-end principle and its premise of secure end devices resulted in unforeseen consequences (such as spam, cybercrime, and cyberattacks) when unsecure personal computers became the dominant device connected via the Internet. Nor does it discuss how the lack of billing mechanisms in the Internet protocol suite has led to the rise of advertising as the sole revenue generation mechanism and the consequences of that development.

    The book analyses the splintering (elsewhere called fragmentation) brought about by the widespread adoption of proprietary systems operating system and their associated “apps”, and by mass surveillance. As Malcomson puts the matter, mass surveillance “was fatal to the universality of the web, because major web companies were and are global but cannot be both global and subject to the intricate agendas of US intelligence and defense institutions, whose purpose is to defend national interests, not universal interests” (160).

    However, the book does not discuss in any depth other sources of splintering, such as calls by some governments for national control over some portions of the Internet, or violations of network neutrality, or zero rating. Yet the book notes that the topic of network neutrality had been raised by Vice President Gore as early as 1993: “Without provisions for open access, the companies that own the networks could use their control of the networks to ensure that their customers only have access to their programming. We have already seen cases where cable company owners have used their monopoly control of their networks to exclude programming that competes with their own. Our legislation will contain strong safeguards against such behavior” (124). As we know, the laws called for in the last sentence were never implemented, and it was only in 2015 that the Federal Communication Commission imposed network neutrality. Malcomson could have used his deep knowledge of the history of the Internet to explain why Gore’s vision was not realized, no doubt because of the tensions mentioned above between the groups competing for influence.

    The book concludes that the Internet will increasingly cease to be “an entirely cross border enterprise”(190), but that the benefits of interoperability will result in a global infrastructure being preserved, so that “a fragmented Internet will retain aspects of universality” (197).

    As mentioned above, the book provides an excellent account of much of the historical origins of the World Wide Web and the disparate forces involved in its creation. The book would be even more valuable if it built on that account to analyze more deeply and put into context trends (which it does mention) other than splintering, such as the growing conflict between Apple, Google et al. who want no restrictions on data collection and encryption (so that they can continue to collect and monetize data), governments who want no encryption so they can censor and/or surveil, and governments who recognize that privacy is a human right, that privacy rules should be strengthened, and that end-users should have full ownership and control of their data.

    Readers keen to understand the negative economic impacts of the Internet should read Dan Schiller’s Digital Depression, and readers keen to understand the negative impacts of the Internet on democracy should read Robert McChesney’s Digital Disconnect. This might lead some to believe that we have would up exactly where we didn’t want to be: “government-driven, corporate-interest driven, profit-driven, monopoly-driven.” The citation (from Lyman Chapin, one of the founders of the Internet Society), found on p. 132 of Malcomson’s book, dates back to 1991, and it reflects what the technologists of the time wanted to avoid.

    To conclude, it is worth noting the quotation on page 57 from Norbert Wiener: “Just as the skilled carpenter, the skilled mechanic, the skilled dressmaker have in some degree survived the first industrial revolution, so the skilled scientist and the skilled administrator might survive the second [the cybernetic revolution]. However, taking the second revolution as accomplished, the average human of mediocre attainments has nothing to sell that is worth anyone’s money to buy. The answer, of course, is to have a society based on human values other than buying and selling.”

    Wiener thus foresaw the current fundamental trends and dilemmas that have been well documented and analyzed by Robert McChesney and John Nichols in their new book People Get Ready: The Fight Against a Jobless Economy and a Citizenless Democracy (Nation Books, 2016).

    There can be no doubt that the current trends are largely conditioned by the early history of ICTs (and in particular of the Internet) and its roots in military applications. Thus Splinternet is a valuable source of material that should be carefully considered by all who are involved in Internet policy matters.
    _____

    Richard Hill is President of the Association for Proper internet Governance, and was formerly a senior official at the International Telecommunication Union (ITU). He has been involved in internet governance issues since the inception of the internet and is now an activist in that area, speaking, publishing, and contributing to discussions in various forums. Among other works he is the author of The New International Telecommunication Regulations and the Internet: A Commentary and Legislative History (Springer, 2014). He writes frequently about internet governance issues for The b2 Review Digital Studies magazine.

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  • Dissecting the “Internet Freedom” Agenda

    Dissecting the “Internet Freedom” Agenda

    Shawn M. Powers and Michael Jablonski, The Real Cyber War: The Political Economy of Internet Freedoma review of Shawn M. Powers and Michael Jablonski, The Real Cyber War: The Political Economy of Internet Freedom  (University of Illinois Press, 2015)
    by Richard Hill
    ~
    Disclosure: the author of this review is thanked in the Preface of the book under review.

    Both radical civil society organizations and mainstream defenders of the status quo agree that the free and open Internet is threatened: see for example the Delhi Declaration, Bob Hinden’s 2014 Year End Thoughts, and Kathy Brown’s March 2015 statement at a UNESCO conference. The threats include government censorship and mass surveillance, but also the failure of governments to control rampant industry concentration and commercial exploitation of personal data, which increasingly takes the form of providing “free” services in exchange for personal information that is resold at a profit, or used to provide targeted advertising, also at a profit.

    In Digital Disconnect, Robert McChesney has explained how the Internet, which was supposed to be a force for the improvement of human rights and living conditions, has been used to erode privacy and to increase the concentration of economic power, to the point where it is becoming a threat to democracy. In Digital Depression, Dan Schiller has documented how US policies regarding the Internet have favored its geo-economic and geo-political goals, in particular the interests of its large private companies that dominate the information and communications technology (ICT) sector worldwide.

    Shawn M. Powers and Michael Jablonski’s seminal new book The Real Cyber War takes us further down the road of understanding what went wrong, and what might be done to correct the situation. Powers, an assistant professor at Georgia State University, specializes in international political communication, with particular attention to the geopolitics of information and information technologies. Jablonski is an attorney and presidential fellow, also at Georgia State.

    There is a vast literature on internet governance (see for example the bibliography in Radu, Chenou, and Weber, eds., The Evolution of Global Internet Governance), but much of it is ideological and normative: the author espouses a certain point of view, explains why that point of view is good, and proposes actions that would lead to the author’s desired outcome (a good example is Milton Mueller’s well researched but utopian Networks and States). There is nothing wrong with that approach: on the contrary, such advocacy is necessary and welcome.

    But a more detached analytical approach is also needed, and Powers and Jablonski provide exactly that. Their objective is to help us understand (citing from p. 19 of the paperback edition) “why states pursue the policies they do”. The book “focuses centrally on understanding the numerous ways in which power and control are exerted in cyberspace” (p. 19).

    Starting from the rather obvious premise that states compete to shape international policies that favor their interests, and using the framework of political economy, the authors outline the geopolitical stakes and show how questions of power, and not human rights, are the real drivers of much of the debate about Internet governance. They show how the United States has deliberately used a human rights discourse to promote policies that further its geo-economic and geo-political interests. And how it has used subsidies and government contracts to help its private companies to acquire or maintain dominant positions in much of the ICT sector.

    Jacob Silverman has decried the “the misguided belief that once power is arrogated away from doddering governmental institutions, it will somehow find itself in the hands of ordinary people”. Powers and Jablonski dissect the mechanisms by which vibrant government institutions deliberately transferred power to US corporations in order to further US geo-economical and geo-political goals.

    In particular, they show how a “freedom to connect” narrative is used by the USA to attempt to transform information and personal data into commercial commodities that should be subject to free trade. Yet all states (including the US) regulate, at least to some extent, the flow of information within and across their borders. If information is the “new oil” of our times, then it is not surprising that states wish to shape the production and flow of information in ways that favor their interests. Thus it is not surprising that states such as China, India, and Russia have started to assert sovereign rights to control some aspect of the production and flow of information within their borders, and that European Union courts have made decisions on the basis of European law that affect global information flows and access.

    As the authors put the matter (p. 6): “the [US] doctrine of internet freedom … is the realization of a broader [US] strategy promoting a particular conception of networked communication that depends on American companies …, supports Western norms …, and promotes Western products.” (I would personally say that it actually supports US norms and US products and services.) As the authors point out, one can ask (p. 11): “If states have a right to control the types of people allowed into their territory (immigration), and how its money is exchanged with foreign banks, then why don’t they have a right to control information flows from foreign actors?”

    To be sure, any such controls would have to comply with international human rights law. But the current US policies go much further, implying that those human rights laws must be implemented in accordance with the US interpretation, meaning few restrictions on freedom of speech, weak protection of privacy, and ever stricter protection for intellectual property. As Powers and Jablonski point out (p. 31), the US does not hesitate to promote restrictions on information flows when that promotes its goals.

    Again, the authors do not make value judgments: they explain in Chapter 1 how the US deliberately attempts to shape (to a large extent successfully) international policies, so that both actions and inactions serve its interests and those of the large corporations that increasingly influence US policies.

    The authors then explain how the US military-industrial complex has morphed into an information-industrial complex, with deleterious consequences for both industry and government, consequences such as “weakened oversight, accountability, and industry vitality and competitiveness”(p. 23) that create risks for society and democracy. As the authors say, the shift “from adversarial to cooperative and laissez-faire rule making is a keystone moment in the rise of the information-industrial complex” (p. 61).

    As a specific example, they focus on Google, showing how it (largely successfully) aims to control and dominate all aspects of the data market, from production, through extraction, refinement, infrastructure and demand. A chapter is devoted to the economics of internet connectivity, showing how US internet policy is basically about getting the largest number of people online, so that US companies can extract ever greater profits from the resulting data flows. They show how the network effects, economies of scale, and externalities that are fundamental features of the internet favor first-movers, which are mostly US companies.

    The remedy to such situations is well known: government intervention: widely accepted regarding air transport, road transport, pharmaceuticals, etc., and yet unthinkable for many regarding the internet. But why? As the authors put the matter (p. 24): “While heavy-handed government controls over the internet should be resisted, so should a system whereby internet connectivity requires the systematic transfer of wealth from the developing world to the developed.” But freedom of information is put forward to justify specific economic practices which would not be easy to justify otherwise, for example “no government taxes companies for data extraction or for data imports/exports, both of which are heavily regulated aspects of markets exchanging other valuable commodities”(p. 97).

    The authors show in detail how the so-called internet multi-stakeholder model of governance is dominated by insiders and used “under the veil of consensus’” (p. 136) to further US policies and corporations. A chapter is devoted to explaining how all states control, at least to some extent, information flows within their territories, and presents detailed studies of how four states (China, Egypt, Iran and the USA) have addressed the challenges of maintaining political control while respecting (or not) freedom of speech. The authors then turn to the very current topic of mass surveillance, and its relation to anonymity, showing how, when the US presents the internet and “freedom to connect” as analogous to public speech and town halls, it is deliberately arguing against anonymity and against privacy – and this of course in order to avoid restrictions on its mass surveillance activities.

    Thus the authors posit that there are tensions between the US call for “internet freedom” and other states’ calls for “information sovereignty”, and analyze the 2012 World Conference on International Telecommunications from that point of view.

    Not surprisingly, the authors conclude that international cooperation, recognizing the legitimate aspirations of all the world’s peoples, is the only proper way forward. As the authors put the matter (p. 206): “Activists and defenders of the original vision of the Web as a ‘fair and humane’ cyber-civilization need to avoid lofty ‘internet freedom’ declarations and instead champion specific reforms required to protect the values and practices they hold dear.” And it is with that in mind, as a counterweight to US and US-based corporate power, that a group of civil society organizations have launched the Internet Social Forum.

    Anybody who is seriously interested in the evolution of internet governance and its impact on society and democracy will enjoy reading this well researched book and its clear exposition of key facts. One can only hope that the Council of Europe will heed Powers and Jablonski’s advice and avoid adopting more resolutions such as the recent recommendation to member states by the EU Committee of Ministers, which merely pander to the US discourse and US power that Powers and Jablonski describe so aptly. And one can fondly hope that this book will help to inspire a change in course that will restore the internet to what it might become (and what many thought it was supposed to be): an engine for democracy and social and economic progress, justice, and equity.
    _____

    Richard Hill is President of the Association for Proper internet Governance, and was formerly a senior official at the International Telecommunication Union (ITU). He has been involved in internet governance issues since the inception of the internet and is now an activist in that area, speaking, publishing, and contributing to discussions in various forums. Among other works he is the author of The New International Telecommunication Regulations and the Internet: A Commentary and Legislative History (Springer, 2014). He writes frequently about internet governance issues for The b2 Review Digital Studies magazine.

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  • Trickster Makes This Web: The Ambiguous Politics of Anonymous

    Trickster Makes This Web: The Ambiguous Politics of Anonymous

    Hacker, Hoaxer, Whistleblower, Spy
    a review of Gabriella Coleman, Hacker, Hoaxer, Whistleblower, Spy: The Many Faces of Anonymous (Verso, 2014)
    by Gavin Mueller
    ~

    Gabriella Coleman’s Hacker, Hoaxer, Whistleblower, Spy (HHWS) tackles a difficult and pressing subject: the amorphous hacker organization Anonymous. The book is not a strictly academic work. Rather, it unfolds as a rather lively history of a subculture of geeks, peppered with snippets of cultural theory and autobiographical portions. As someone interested in a more sustained theoretical exposition of Anonymous’s organizing and politics, I was a bit disappointed, though Coleman has opted for a more readable style. In fact, this is the book’s best asset. However, while containing a number of insights of interest to the general reader, the book ultimately falters as an assessment of Anonymous’s political orientation, or the state of hacker politics in general.

    Coleman begins with a discussion of online trolling, a common antagonistic online cultural practice; many Anons cut their troll teeth at the notorious 4chan message board. Trolling aims to create “lulz,” a kind of digital schadenfreude produced by pranks, insults and misrepresentations. According to Coleman, the lulz are “a form of cultural differentiation and a tool or weapon used to attack, humiliate, and defame” rooted in the use of “inside jokes” of those steeped in the codes of Internet culture (32). Coleman argues that the lulz has a deeper significance: they “puncture the consensus around our politics and ethics, our social lives and our aesthetic sensibilities.” But trolling can be better understood through an offline frame of reference: hazing. Trolling is a means by which geeks have historically policed the boundaries of the subcultural corners of the Internet. If you can survive the epithets and obscene pictures, you might be able to hang. That trolling often takes the form of misogynist, racist and homophobic language is unsurprising: early Net culture was predominantly white and male, a demographic fact which overdetermines the shape of resentment towards “newbies” (or in 4chan’s unapologetically offensive argot, “newfags”). The lulz is joy that builds community, but almost always at someone else’s expense.

    Coleman, drawing upon her background as an anthropologist, conceptualizes the troll as an instantiation of the trickster archetype which recurs throughout mythology and folklore. Tricksters, she argues, like trolls and Anonymous, are liminal figures who defy norms and revel in causing chaos. This kind of application of theory is a common technique in cultural studies, where seemingly apolitical or even anti-social transgressions, like punk rock or skateboarding, can be politicized with a dash of Bakhtin or de Certeau. Here it creates difficulties. There is one major difference between the spider spirit Anansi and Coleman’s main informant on trolling, the white supremacist hacker weev: Anansi is fictional, while weev is a real person who writes op-eds for neo-Nazi websites. The trickster archetype, a concept crafted for comparative structural analysis of mythology, does little to explain the actually existing social practice of trolling. Instead it renders it more complicated, ambiguous, and uncertain. These difficulties are compounded as the analysis moves to Anonymous. Anonymous doesn’t merely enact a submerged politics via style or symbols. It engages in explicitly political projects, complete with manifestos, though Coleman continues to return to transgression as one of its salient features.

    The trolls of 4chan, from which Anonymous emerged, developed a culture of compulsory anonymity. In part, this was technological: unlike other message boards and social media, posting on 4chan requires no lasting profile, no consistent presence. But there was also a cultural element to this. Identifying oneself is strongly discouraged in the community. Fittingly, its major trolling weapon is doxing: revealing personal information to facilitate further harassment offline (prank calls, death threats, embarrassment in front of employers). As Whitney Phillips argues, online trolling often acts as a kind of media critique: by enforcing anonymity and rejecting fame or notoriety, Anons oppose the now-dominant dynamics of social media and personal branding which have colonized much of the web, and threaten their cherished subcultural practices, which are more adequately enshrined in formats such as image boards and IRC. In this way, Anonymous deploys technological means to thwart the dominant social practices of technology, a kind of wired Luddism. Such practices proliferate in the communities of the computer underground, which is steeped in an omnipresent prelapsarian nostalgia since at least the “eternal September” of the early 1990s.

    HHWS’s overarching narrative is the emergence of Anonymous out of the cesspits of 4chan and into political consciousness: trolling for justice instead of lulz. The compulsory anonymity of 4chan, in part, determined Anonymous’s organizational form: Anonymous lacks formal membership, instead formed from entirely ad hoc affiliations. The brand itself can be selectively deployed or disavowed, leading to much argumentation and confusion. Coleman provides an insider perspective on how actions are launched: there is debate, occasionally a rough consensus, and then activity, though several times individuals opt to begin an action, dragging along a number of other participants of varying degrees of reluctance. Tactics are formalized in an experimental, impromptu way. In this, I recognized the way actions formed in the Occupy encampments. Anonymous, as Coleman shows, was an early Occupy Wall Street booster, and her analysis highlights the connection between the Occupy form and the networked forms of sociality exemplified by Anonymous. After reading Coleman’s account, I am much more convinced of Anonymous’s importance to the movement. Likewise, many criticisms of Occupy could also be levelled at Anonymous; Coleman cites Jo Freeman’s “The Tyranny of Structurelessness” as one candidate.

    If Anonymous can be said to have a coherent political vision, it is one rooted in civil liberties, particularly freedom of speech and opposition censorship efforts. Indeed, Coleman earns the trust of several hackers by her affiliation with the Electronic Frontier Foundation, nominally the digital equivalent to the ACLU (though some object to this parallel, due in part to EFF’s strong ties to industry). Geek politics, from Anonymous to Wikileaks to the Pirate Bay, are a weaponized form of the mantra “information wants to be free.” Anonymous’s causes seem fit these concerns perfectly: Scientology’s litigious means of protecting its secrets provoked its wrath, as did the voluntary withdrawal of services to Wikileaks by PayPal and Mastercard, and the Bay Area Rapid Transit police’s blacking out of cell phone signals to scuttle a protest.

    I’ve referred to Anonymous as geeks rather than hackers deliberately. Hackers — skilled individuals who can break into protected systems — participate in Anonymous, but many of the Anons pulled from 4chan are merely pranksters with above-average knowledge of the Internet and computing. This gets the organization in quite a bit of trouble when it engages in the political tactic of most interest to Coleman, the distributed denial of service (DDoS) attack. A DDoS floods a website with requests, overwhelming its servers. This technique has captured the imaginations of a number of scholars, including Coleman, with its resemblance to offline direct action like pickets and occupations. However, the AnonOps organizers falsely claimed that their DDoS app, the Low-Orbit Ion Cannon, ensured user anonymity, leading to a number of Anons facing serious criminal charges. Coleman curiously places the blame for this startling breach of operational security on journalists writing about AnonOps, rather on the organizers themselves. Furthermore, many DDoS attacks, including those launched by Anonymous, have relied on botnets, which draw power from hundreds of hijacked computers, bears little resemblance to any kind of democratic initiative. Of course, this isn’t to say that the harsh punishments meted out to Anons under the auspices of the Computer Fraud and Abuse Act are warranted, but that political tactics must be subjected to scrutiny.

    Coleman argues that Anonymous outgrew its narrow civil libertarian agenda with its involvement in the Arab Spring: “No longer was the group bound to Internet-y issues like censorship and file-sharing” (148). However, by her own account, it is opposition to censorship which truly animates the group. The #OpTunisia manifesto (Anonymous names its actions with the prefix “Op,” for operations, along with the ubiquitous Twitter-based hashtag) states plainly, “Any organization involved in censorship will be targeted” (ibid). Anons were especially animated by the complete shut-off of the Internet in Tunisia and Egypt, actions which shattered the notion of the Internet as a space controlled by geeks, not governments. Anonymous operations launched against corporations did not oppose capitalist exploitation but fought corporate restrictions on online conduct. These are laudable goals, but also limited ones, and are often compatible with Silicon Valley companies, as illustrated by the Google-friendly anti-SOPA/PIPA protests.

    Coleman is eager to distance Anonymous from the libertarian philosophies rife in geek and hacker circles, but its politics are rarely incompatible with such a perspective. The most recent Guy Fawkes Day protest I witnessed in Washington, D.C., full of mask-wearing Anons, displayed a number of slogans emerging from the Ron Paul camp, “End the Fed” prominent among them. There is no accounting for this in HHWS. It is clear that political differences among Anons exists, and that any analysis must be nuanced. But Coleman’s description of this nuance ultimately doesn’t delineate the political positions within the group and how they coalesce, opting to elide these differences in favor of a more protean focus on “transgression.” In this way, she is able to provide a conceptual coherence for Anonymous, albeit at the expense of a detailed examination of the actual politics of its members. In the final analysis, “Anonymous became a generalized symbol for dissent, a medium to channel deep disenchantment… basically, with anything” (399).

    As political concerns overtake the lulz, Anonymous wavers as smaller militant hacker crews LulzSec and AntiSec take the fore, doxing white hat security executives, leaking documents, and defacing websites. This frustrates Coleman: “Anonymous had been exciting to me for a specific reason: it was the largest and most populist disruptive grassroots movement the Internet had, up to that time, fomented. But it felt, suddenly like AnonOps/Anonymous was slipping into a more familiar state of hacker-vanguardism” (302). Yet it is at this moment that Coleman offers a revealing account of hacker ideology: its alignment with the philosophy of Friedrich Nietzsche. From 4chan’s trolls scoffing at morality and decency, to hackers disregarding technical and legal restraints to accessing information, to the collective’s general rejection any standard form of accountability, Anonymous truly seems to posit itself as beyond good and evil. Coleman herself confesses to being “overtly romantic” as she supplies alibis for the group’s moral and strategic failures (it is, after all, incredibly difficult for an ethnographer to criticize her informants). But Nietzsche was a profoundly undemocratic thinker, whose avowed elitism should cast more of a disturbing shadow over the progressive potentials behind hacker groups than it does for Coleman, who embraces the ability of hackers to “cast off — at least momentarily — the shackles of normativity and attain greatness” (275). Coleman’s previous work on free software programmers convincingly makes the case for a Nietzschean current running through hacker culture; I am considerably more skeptical than she is about the liberal democratic viewpoint this engenders.

    Ultimately, Coleman concludes that Anonymous cannot work as a substitute for existing organizations, but that its tactics should be taken up by other political formations: “The urgent question is how to promote cross-pollination” between Anonymous and more formalized structures (374). This may be warranted, but there needs to be a fuller accounting of the drawbacks to Anonymous. Because anyone can fly its flag, and because its actions are guided by talented and charismatic individuals working in secret, Anonymous is ripe for infiltration. Historically, hackers have proven to be easy for law enforcement and corporations to co-opt, not the least because of the ferocious rivalries amongst hackers themselves. Tactics are also ambiguous. A DDoS can be used by anti-corporate activists, or by corporations against their rivals and enemies. Document dumps can ruin a diplomatic initiative, or a woman’s social life. Public square occupations can be used to advocate for democracy, or as a platform for anti-democratic coups. Currently, a lot of the same geek energy behind Anonymous has been devoted to the misogynist vendetta GamerGate (in a Reddit AMA, Coleman adopted a diplomatic tone, referring to GamerGate as “a damn Gordian knot”). Without a steady sense of Anonymous’s actual political commitments, outside of free speech, it is difficult to do much more than marvel at the novelty of their media presence (which wears thinner with each overwrought communique). With Hoaxer, Hacker, Whistleblower, Spy, Coleman has offered a readable account of recent hacker history, but I remain unconvinced of Anonymous’s political potential.

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    Gavin Mueller (@gavinsaywhat) is a PhD candidate in cultural studies at George Mason University, and an editor at Jacobin and Viewpoint Magazine.

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  • Is the Network a Brain?

    Is the Network a Brain?

    Pickering, Cybernetic Braina review of Andrew Pickering, The Cybernetic Brain: Sketches of Another Future (University of Chicago Press, 2011)
    by Jonathan Goodwin
    ~

    Evgeny Morozov’s recent New Yorker article about Project Cybersyn in Allende’s Chile caused some controversy when critics accused Morozov of not fully acknowledging his sources. One of those sources was sociologist of science Andrew Pickering’s The Cybernetic Brain. Morozov is quoted as finding Pickering’s book “awful.” It’s unlikely that Morozov meant “awful” in the sense of “awe-inspiring,” but that was closer to my reaction after reading Pickering’s 500+ pp. work on the British tradition in cybernetics. This tradition was less militarist and more artistic, among other qualities, in Pickering’s account, than is popularly understood. I found myself greatly intrigued—if not awed—by the alternate future that his subtitle and final chapter announces. Cybernetics is now a largely forgotten dead-end in science. And the British tradition that Pickering describes had relatively little influence within cybernetics itself. So what is important about it now, and what is the nature of this other future that Pickering sketches?

    The major figures of this book, which proceeds with overviews of their careers, views, and accomplishments, are Grey Walter, Ross Ashby, Gregory Bateson, R. D. Laing, Stafford Beer, and Gordon Pask. Stuart Kauffman’s and Stephen Wolfram’s work on complexity theory also makes an appearance.[1] Laing and Bateson’s relevance may not be immediately clear. Pickering’s interest in them derives from their extension of cybernetic ideas to the emerging technologies of the self in the 1960s. Both Bateson and Laing approached schizophrenia as an adaptation to the increasing “double-binds” of Western culture, and both looked to Eastern spiritual traditions and chemical methods of consciousness-alteration as potential treatments. The Bateson and Laing material makes the most direct reference to the connection between the cybernetic tradition and the “Californian Ideology” that animates much Silicon Valley thinking. Stewart Brand was influenced by Bateson’s Steps to an Ecology of Mind (183), for example. Pickering identifies Northern California as the site where cybernetics migrated into the counterculture. As a technology of control, it is arguable that this countercultural migration has become part of the ruling ideology of the present moment. Pickering recognizes this but seems to concede that the inherent topicality would detract from the focus of his work. It is a facet that would be of interest to the readers of this “Digital Studies” section of The b2 Review, however, and I will thus return to it at the end of this review.

    Pickering’s path to Bateson and Laing originates with Grey Walter’s and Ross Ashby’s pursuit of cybernetic models of the brain. Computational models of the brain, though originally informed by cybernetic research, quickly replaced it in Pickering’s account (62). He asks why computational models of the brain quickly gathered so much cultural interest. Rodney Brooks’s robots, with their more embodied approach, Pickering argues, are in the tradition of Walter’s tortoises and outside the symbolic tradition of artificial intelligence. I find it noteworthy that the neurological underpinnings of early cybernetics were so strongly influenced by behaviorism. Computationalist approaches, associated by Pickering with the establishment or “royal” science, here, were intellectually formed by an attack on behaviorism. Pickering even addresses this point obliquely, when he wonders why literary scholars had not noticed that the octopus in Gravity’s Rainbow was apparently named “Grigori” in homage to Gregory Bateson (439n13).[2] I think one reason this hasn’t been noticed is that it’s much more likely that the name was random but for its Slavic form, which is clearly in the same pattern of references to Russian behaviorist psychology that informs Pynchon’s novel. An offshoot of behaviorism inspiring a countercultural movement devoted to freedom and experimentation seems peculiar.

    One of Pickering’s key insights into this alternate tradition of cybernetics is that its science is performative. Rather than being as theory-laden as are the strictly computationalist approaches, cybernetic science often studied complex systems as assemblages whose interactions generated novel insights. Contrast this epistemology to what critics point to as the frequent invocation of the Duhem-Quine thesis by Noam Chomsky.[3] For Pickering, Ross Ashby’s version of cybernetics was a “supremely general and protean science” (147). As it developed, the brain lost its central place and cybernetics became a “freestanding general science” (147). As I mentioned, the chapter on Ashby closes with a consideration of the complexity science of Stuart Kauffman and Stephen Wolfram. That Kauffman and Wolfram largely have worked outside mainstream academic institutions is important for Pickering.[4] Christopher Alexander’s pattern language in architecture is a third example. Pickering mentions that Alexander’s concept was influential in some areas of computer science; the notion of “object-oriented programming” is sometimes considered to have been influenced by Alexander’s ideas.

    I mention this connection because many of the alternate traditions in cybernetics have become mainstream influences in contemporary digital culture. It is difficult to imagine Laing and Bateson’s alternative therapeutic ideas having any resonance in that culture, however. The doctrine that “selves are endlessly complex and endlessly explorable” (211) is sometimes proposed as something the internet facilitates, but the inevitable result of anonymity and pseudonymity in internet discourse is the enframing of hierarchical relations. I realize this point may sound controversial to those with a more benign or optimistic view of digital culture. That this countercultural strand of cybernetic practice has clear parallels with much digital libertarian rhetoric is hard to dispute. Again, Pickering is not concerned in the book with tracing these contemporary parallels. I mention them because of my own interest and this venue’s presumed interest in the subject.

    The progression that begins with some variety of conventional rationalism, extends through a career in cybernetics, and ends in some variety of mysticism is seen with almost all of the figures that Pickering profiles in The Cybernetic Brain. Perhaps the clearest example—and most fascinating in general—is that of Stafford Beer. Philip Mirowski’s review of Pickering’s book refers to Beer as “a slightly wackier Herbert Simon.” Pickering enjoys recounting the adventures of the wizard of Prang, a work that Beer composed after he had moved to a remote Welsh village and renounced many of the world’s pleasures. Beer’s involvement in Project Cybersyn makes him perhaps the most well-known of the figures profiled in this book.[5] What perhaps fascinate Pickering more than anything else in Beer’s work is the concept of viability. From early in his career, Beer advocated for upwardly viable management strategies. The firm would not need a brain, in his model, “it would react to changing circumstances; it would grow and evolve like an organism or species, all without any human intervention at all” (225). Mirowski’s review compares Beer to Friedrich Hayek and accuses Pickering of refusing to engage with this seemingly obvious intellectual affinity.[6] Beer’s intuitions in this area led him to experiment with biological and ecological computing; Pickering surmises that Douglas Adams’s superintelligent mice derived from Beer’s murine experiments in this area (241).

    In a review of a recent translation of Stanislaw Lem’s Summa Technologiae, Pickering mentions that natural adaptive systems being like brains and being able to be utilized for intelligence amplification is the most “amazing idea in the history of cybernetics” (247).[7] Despite its association with the dreaded “synergy” (the original “syn” of Project Cybersyn), Beer’s viable system model never became a management fad (256). Alexander Galloway has recently written here about the “reticular fallacy,” the notion that de-centralized forms of organization are necessarily less repressive than are centralized or hierachical forms. Beer’s viable system model proposes an emergent and non-hierarchical management system that would increase the general “eudemony” (general well-being, another of Beer’s not-quite original neologisms [272]). Beer’s turn towards Tantric mysticism seems somehow inevitable in Pickering’s narrative of his career. The syntegric icosahedron, one of Beer’s late baroque flourishes, reminded me quite a bit of a Paul Laffoley painting. Syntegration as a concept takes reticularity to a level of mysticism rarely achieved by digital utopians. Pickering concludes the chapter on Beer with a discussion of his influence on Brian Eno’s ambient music.

    Laffoley, "The Orgone Motor"
    Paul Laffoley, “The Orgone Motor” (1981). Image source: paullaffoley.net.

    The discussion of Eno chides him for not reading Gordon Pask’s explicitly aesthetic cybernetics (308). Pask is the final cybernetician of Pickering’s study and perhaps the most eccentric. Pickering describes him as a model for Patrick Troughton’s Dr. Who (475n3), and his synaesthetic work in cybernetics with projects like the Musicolor are explicitly theatrical. A theatrical performance that directly incorporates audience feedback into the production, not just at the level of applause or hiss, but in audience interest in a particular character—a kind of choose-your-own adventure theater—was planned with Joan Littlewood (348-49). Pask’s work in interface design has been identified as an influence on hypertext (464n17). A great deal of the chapter on Pask involves his influence on British countercultural arts and architecture movements in the 1960s. Mirowski’s review shortly notes that even the anti-establishment Gordon Pask was funded by the Office of Naval Research for fifteen years (194). Mirowski also accuses Pickering of ignoring the computer as the emblematic cultural artifact of the cybernetic worldview (195). Pask is the strongest example offered of an alternate future of computation and social organization, but it is difficult to imagine his cybernetic present.

    The final chapter of Pickering’s book is entitled “Sketches of Another Future.” What is called “maker culture” combined with the “internet of things” might lead some prognosticators to imagine an increasingly cybernetic digital future. Cybernetic, that is, not in the sense of increasing what Mirowski refers to as the neoliberal “background noise of modern culture” but as a “challenge to the hegemony of modernity” (393). Before reading Pickering’s book, I would have regarded such a prediction with skepticism. I still do, but Pickering has argued that an alternate—and more optimistic—perspective is worth taking seriously.

    _____

    Jonathan Goodwin is Associate Professor of English at the University of Louisiana, Lafayette. He is working on a book about cultural representations of statistics and probability in the twentieth century.

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    [1] Wolfram was born in England, though he has lived in the United States since the 1970s. Pickering taught at the University of Illinois while this book was being written, and he mentions having several interviews with Wolfram, whose company Wolfram Research is based in Champaign, Illinois (457n73). Pickering’s discussion of Wolfram’s A New Kind of Science is largely neutral; for a more skeptical view, see Cosma Shalizi’s review.

    [2] Bateson experimented with octopuses, as Pickering describes. Whether Pynchon knew about this, however, remains doubtful. Pickering’s note may also be somewhat facetious.

    [3] See the interview with George Lakoff in Ideology and Linguistic Theory: Noam Chomsky and the Deep Structure Debates, ed. Geoffrey J. Huck and John A. Goldsmith (New York: Routledge, 1995), p. 115. Lakoff’s account of Chomsky’s philosophical justification for his linguistic theories is tendentious; I mention it here because of the strong contrast, even in caricature, with the performative quality of the cybernetic research Pickering describes. (1999).

    [4] Though it is difficult to think of the Santa Fe Institute this way now.

    [5] For a detailed cultural history of Project Cybersyn, see Eden Medina, Cybernetic Revolutionaries: Technology and Politics in Allende’s Chile (MIT Press, 2011). Medina notes that Beer formed the word “algedonic” from two words meaning “pain” and “pleasure,” but the OED notes an example in the same sense from 1894. This citation does not rule out independent coinage, of course. Curiously enough, John Fowles uses the term in The Magus (1966), where it could have easily been derived from Beer.

    [6] Hayek’s name appears neither in the index nor the reference list. It does seem a curious omission in the broader intellectual context of cybernetics.

    [7] Though there is a reference to Lem’s fiction in an endnote (427n25), Summa Technologiae, a visionary exploration of cybernetic philosophy dating from the early 1960s, does not appear in Pickering’s work. A complete English translation only recently appeared, and I know of no evidence that Pickering’s principal figures were influenced by Lem at all. The book, as Pickering’s review acknowledges, is astonishingly prescient and highly recommended for anyone interested in the culture of cybernetics.