In her forthcoming publication “The Rise and Fall of the Artificial State,” Jill Lepore cautions that technology firms are progressively taking over the roles of democratic governance. She states that this change signifies “a regression to tyranny and mystification characterized by governance through algorithms, corporations, and machines.”
In the latest episode of TechCrunch’s Equity podcast, I conversed with Lepore — a historian from Harvard and a staff writer at the New Yorker, who has recently received a Pulitzer Prize for her account of the U.S. Constitution — regarding the progression of what she refers to as “the concept of existing under an artificial state or machine-led governance.”
“I’m not against technology,” Lepore emphasized. Rather, she explained, “My concern is the extent to which private enterprises have increasingly assumed the roles of the state.”
While Lepore’s book explores technocratic ideologies that date back centuries, she contended that many of Silicon Valley’s “leaders, whether charismatic or not” — notably Elon Musk — appear to be steering us toward a future inspired by misinterpreted pulp science fiction and comic narratives.
“However, what’s ironic about Musk is that the things he admires completely contradict and challenge all his political convictions,” she remarked.
Our discussion also touched on Apple’s renowned “1984” Macintosh advertisement, the absurdity of calling Twitter a digital town square, and the current backlash against data centers. Continue reading for key points, condensed for brevity and understanding.
So, you’ve probably explained this frequently, but could you detail what you mean by the “artificial state”?
By “artificial state,” I refer to a type of governance that is supplanting the liberal democratic nation-state both in the United States and globally. It’s simultaneously a tangible reality, a construct, and an abstract notion.
In this book “The Rise and Fall of the Artificial State,” I outline the emergence of the belief that we should operate under an artificial government or machine-led state. I also follow the concept that this is bound to fail, that the artificial state cannot endure, tracing that notion through science fiction.
At one point, you state that the ascent of the artificial state signifies the conclusion of centuries of democracy and equal rights, and it’s “a return to tyranny and mystification via governance by algorithms, corporations, and machines.” Could you elaborate on why you view this so starkly?
Yes, I maintain a rather bleak perspective on it, and I think it’s crucial to differentiate the artificial state from technology itself or technological expressions. I don’t oppose technology. I’m married to a computer scientist. I’m genuinely enthusiastic about numerous intellectual revolutions happening presently.
That’s not my issue, right? My issue lies in how private companies have increasingly taken over the state’s functions. No one has consented to this. It has been a gradual, largely incidental change in the operations of numerous nation-states globally — beginning in the United States.
I often believe these innovations aiming to incorporate new technologies into governmental functions were quite well-intentioned; they stemmed from a desire for efficiency, speed, and affordability. Then, I think in the last 20 to 25 years, these choices have become intentionally and deliberately an act of usurping the nation-state’s role.
This isn’t mere speculation. Many notable tech entrepreneurs express a desire to move beyond the age of the nation-state. […] A significant number of futurists in the 1990s were libertarians, interested in leveraging the internet’s advancement and the following innovations to obliterate the nation-state.
You discuss, on one hand, the technologies themselves, and on the other, the philosophies behind them, as well as the increasingly significant role of corporations. To what extent can we differentiate between them? Is it possible to envision a version of the internet and social media that doesn’t necessarily lead us toward the future we seem to be [currently] speeding toward?
Absolutely. I’m a historian, not a tech writer or journalist, nor a computer scientist. My primary focus is political history, although I am also a literary historian. One of my goals in this book is to unravel all the “what-ifs,” the alternatives, the paths not taken and their implications.
There was considerable discussion during the 1990s about what the internet would resemble once it was opened up, and the result, the 1996 Telecommunications Act — many would argue — was a mistake, not an act of ill intent.
However, it reflected a specific political moment, greatly influenced by Newt Gingrich and his Contract with America, making it challenging to revisit. It’s worthwhile to reflect on the alternatives available at that time.
You could make similar observations regarding the personal computer. To the extent that we can identify a moment when the promise that superior computer technology would lead to improved democracies can be traced, it would be January 1984, during that Super Bowl advertisement Apple aired for the Macintosh, evoking George Orwell’s “1984.” Apple advocated that mainframe computers embodied totalitarianism, aiming to dismantle the colossal gray IBM machines, which were portrayed as a totalitarian force in that advertisement, while the sleek, charming, personal Macintosh was represented as the tool that would destroy that machine, ushering in an era where “1984 wouldn’t be ‘1984.’”
That was clever advertising. I doubt anyone at Apple genuinely believed that personal computers would serve as instruments of personal freedom. Certainly, they enabled many interesting functionalities. I recall when I received my first Macintosh—it definitely wasn’t 1984, but it was exciting and innovative, and I accomplished many tasks with it. It never occurred to me that it was enhancing my capacity for citizenship or improving my role in civil society. It was a compelling tool.
However, projecting forward to 2026, with milestones along the way—such as the 2016 election when Facebook News established a Supreme Court in response to criticism. More recently, Anthropic hired a moral philosopher to draft a constitution. Not long ago, Sam Altman was on Joe Rogan, stating [in response to a question], “An AI president would be a fantastic idea.”
In some respects, these may seem trivial instances. Yet, they illustrate how these corporations, these tech firms from Silicon Valley, along with their charismatic or otherwise leaders, are acquiring the attributes of the nation-state and the functions of democracy.
These figures aren’t guided by a profound political philosophy, but rather resemble a cartoonish rendition of that 1984 Macintosh advertisement, albeit one that takes itself quite seriously. These companies wield substantial power.
That said, the book doesn’t commence in 1984. I just believe that’s a fitting example of our contemporary era and how an engaging advertising campaign has morphed into a rather delusional fantasy for individuals like Sam Altman.
You also mention the promise of the so-called “Twitter revolution,” suggesting that it would foster democracy globally. I can’t help but let that influence my reactions when Sam Altman or another AI CEO claims that AI will bring forth remarkable benefits — and thus, opposing it equates to resisting progress and history.
To what extent should we outright dismiss these assertions or are there scenarios where they might indeed hold truth?
I mean, Twitter serves as an apt illustration, right? When it launched, when Jack Dorsey initiated it, it didn’t proclaim, “We’re going to salvage humanity; we’re here to rescue civilization from extinction.” It was rather lighthearted, and early users of Twitter were likely thinking, “This is actually enjoyable.” It was like, “I made a tuna sandwich today. What did you have for lunch?” Twitter, as a company, did not present itself on a stage claiming, “We’re here to defend democracy.”
What unfolded was that politicians and elected officials began using Twitter in manners that amplified their political influence, enhanced their messaging, and connected them to a younger demographic, maintaining a continuous relationship with their audience. Politicians and political campaigns effectively persuaded Twitter — at least from my perspective, which isn’t insider — that due to Twitter’s significant growth and the political discussions taking place, it was nearly functioning as a town hall.
By the time we reach 2012 — quite a few years into Twitter’s relatively brief history — they published a document called the Twitter Politics and Elections Handbook, essentially serving as a guide for candidates and elected officials on maximizing Twitter’s potential. They began marketing it as, “It’s a town hall in your pocket, enhancing our democracies by reviving the defunct New England town meeting,” which is completely ludicrous.
Objectively, the reality couldn’t be further from that claim. At that time, only one in five Americans had a Twitter account. Most of these users hadn’t actively engaged with their accounts, and over 90% of political tweets were generated by fewer than 10% of the frequent users. There was no representation of the electorate on Twitter. Twitter represented the most extreme, politically active segments among Americans, engaged in politics fervently. Looking back, we can now see that it served primarily as a distortion machine. If politicians relied on it to assess the electorate, they were gathering profoundly misleading information.
Once again, it can be argued that Twitter did not set out to engage in the artificial state or undermine democracy. Twitter’s objective was business: to acquire more users and increase revenues. But it experienced unintended consequences that it eventually accepted and grew comfortable with.
I want to delve a bit deeper into the book’s structure. As you mentioned, it begins with a history of technology and ideas, with the latter half focusing on science fiction. Could you elaborate on how this structure formed and your reasoning behind addressing it in this manner?
I became particularly intrigued by how often science fiction narratives anticipate the emergence of what I later termed the artificial state. Thus, I aimed to identify a literary tradition that I consider the parable of the artificial state, wherein machines grow more sophisticated, assume additional human functions, including governmental roles, and ultimately come to dominate humans, potentially extinguishing them since they no longer require their existence.
Perhaps they merely enslave them; that varies depending on whether we inhabit “The Terminator” universe or “Battlestar Galactica.” Different versions exist, and these narratives have roots extending to the 1850s and the early contemplation of the impacts of industrialism.
Many individuals — this is certainly true for my students, my undergraduates — hold the belief that technological advancement equates to progress. Furthermore, they believe that the only form of progress arises from technological advancement. This mentality is a product of the 19th century, partly because the rapidity of technological change coincided with Charles Darwin developing and publishing his theory of evolution.
Thus, a peculiar union formed between the concepts of evolution as progress and technological advancement as progress, leading to the dismissal of earlier notions of progress predominantly related to moral advancement — the idea that progress manifests as moral improvement or increased individual freedom.
Numerous alternative perspectives on progress exist, but currently, the dominant narrative is this 19th-century interpretation of technological progress as the sole form of advancement, thus categorizing all technological advancements as progress, while objectively, it’s only progress if it genuinely results in improvement.
In any case, that confluence in the 19th century between the notions of technological progress and evolution meant that analytical thinkers began to ponder, “If machines continue to develop better, faster, capable of accomplishing a growing array of tasks — not merely labor but perhaps thinking, communicating, or moving — what if they evolve to surpass us in every respect? Not merely in operating a loom but in every aspect?” Alongside this grew a profound anxiety that frequently found expression in science fiction.
My favorite of these stories, I believe published in 1909 by E. M. Forster, around the time he penned “A Room with a View,” is titled “The Machine Stops,” which might also be subtitled “The Room Without a View.” He envisions a near-future scenario where everyone resides in isolated rooms, never seeing others, as everything they need is delivered directly to them. It’s akin to modern food delivery; all demands are met through a screen allowing communication with others.
The primary fear of these individuals centers on the natural world. No one desires to see the sun; it has a slight “Matrix” vibe, and they worship the machine that orchestrates their lives, bringing everything they require to their cubicle-like rooms. The narrative revolves around the idea that humans have become essentially subservient to the machine, which is stronger, more efficient, and more capable than humans, leading to a loss of human ability. The story reaches its climax when the machine ceases to function.
Should readers explore that story, they would find it resonates with contemporary experiences, arguably feeling more like the diary of a deeply dissatisfied YouTuber than just a piece of science fiction.
You connect this thread to some individuals currently managing companies and, by extension, various facets of our governance, including Elon Musk. Essentially, you propose that they are poor interpreters of science fiction, taking warnings or ambivalent narratives as blueprints for the future.
This poses a challenge for science fiction readers, especially those who appreciate authors like Isaac Asimov. I concede that when Musk or Altman openly state, “Yes, this story serves as a template for my company’s future,” that’s outrageous. Yet, there is [also] a technocratic libertarian thread in science fiction that they are engaging with; it’s not entirely fabricated.
Oddly enough, that aligns with Heinlein rather than Asimov or Douglas Adams.
Indeed, this thread exists in science fiction. I suspect [Jeff] Bezos is a significant fan of Robert Heinlein. One might say, “Okay, there’s a concordance there. They interpret it literally, but at least they grasp the political messaging that any rational reader could extract from the text.”
However, the irony with Musk is that the concepts he appreciates inherently contradict his political ideologies.
You assert repeatedly that the artificial state, in its existing form, is unfinished and destined for failure. Why is it fated to fail?
This is a theme anticipated in much of the science fiction I discuss.
It isn’t an Asimov narrative but one of his [most cherished] tales from his youth, “The Man Who Awoke” by Laurence Manning, which illustrates a future where foresters have triumphed over wasters. […] This future conflict was between those who exploited resources without regard and those who prioritized sustainable practices — we could now describe these as reforestation and rewilding.
This represents the fundamental conflict in these narratives; the artificial state versus the natural world. To establish an artificial state and exert control over humanity, there’s a necessity to detach from the natural world as it is being destroyed. The artificial state will obliterate nature, yet it must rely on the resources that the natural world offers to function effectively.
Thus, it is doomed in the sense that a surviving natural world, one that remains livable for humanity, cannot endure under the complete construction and dependency on the mechanisms of the artificial state. This is how the science fiction typically unfolds.
As you noted, you’re a historian, not a politician or futurist. However, what would you envisage as the defeat of the artificial state? Would it involve dismantling all these corporations and tearing down data centers? Or does a more controlled future seem plausible?
I don’t possess a definitive plan here, aside from advocating for a democratic process where decisions are made in consultation with those impacted, and such decisions frequently aren’t beneficial.
This is observable in the numerous data center controversies spreading across towns, counties, and states — which stem partly from the decline of local journalism and the broader collapse of authentic journalism, often a consequence of social media, and in Zuckerberg’s case, arguably a deliberate aftermath.
What’s evident is that numerous citizens, as seen in the Salt Lake instance, where over 70% opposed a data center yet their representatives endorsed it, are demanding transparency. They ask questions like, “We lack housing, healthcare, and jobs. Who authorized this data center? I require more information regarding its energy consumption. What about water usage? Will it generate lasting jobs or merely temporary ones? What will happen to the egrets in the vicinity?” They seek answers on numerous fronts.
Increasingly, it becomes apparent that individuals are — reflecting in the Salt Lake situation — opposing such developments decisively, yet their representatives aren’t responding appropriately. That indicates a failure to represent the constituents. I anticipate political ramifications, which may become evident in election outcomes.
Or perhaps we might not witness that. Sufficient democratic processes must remain intact for individuals to effectively respond to the wrongdoing of their representatives.
Your reflections on [the artificial state] originated from an exceptional piece you published over a decade ago in The New Yorker, critiquing Clayton Christensen’s concept of the innovator’s dilemma and disruptive innovation — a notion closely intertwined with TechCrunch, given that we host a major conference named Disrupt.
Ten years later, how do you perceive the notion of disruptive innovation?
I uphold all statements made in that article. [At the time, Lepore noted, “Disruptive innovation is a theory concerning why businesses fail. It’s not more than that. It doesn’t elucidate change. It’s not a law of nature.” Christensen contended that Lepore disregarded “all the principles of scholarship that she accused me of violating.”]
I revisited it last summer while working on this book. What I would like to convey is, in my effort to be a composed individual, it’s concerning that historians have not engaged with these concepts. One motivation for writing that article on disruptive innovation — which was originally a commission […] — was my sense that “disruptive innovation” encapsulates a historical theory. It’s a narrative of historical evolution grounded in archival evidence. As a historian, I found his use of evidence utterly untenable when judged by established historical methodology. His argument lacks any meaningful dialogue with a true understanding of how change materializes.
Consequently, I reevaluated the research, and it simply didn’t hold up at all. I felt compelled to articulate this. I would hope to see greater engagement among academic historians concerning the nature of change — a topic genuinely and deeply concerned individuals involved in technological development.
Individuals commonly desire to explore, “What does this mean? What are the implications of my actions? Can I derive insights from history? What transpired when automobiles replaced horses? What rules arose? How did we develop driver’s licenses? What led to the establishment of traffic regulations? These legal frameworks didn’t exist prior to cars. How did our insurance systems evolve? How did driver tests come into play? How did we formulate safeguards around a technology that was extraordinarily exhilarating, significantly improved lives in numerous ways, entirely transformed landscapes, and revolutionized tort law? Perhaps I should contemplate that.”
I simply wish historians would engage more deeply with technologists over time, as well as with entrepreneurs. Not solely to present lectures on history, but because I believe a substantial dialogue could yield valuable insights.
That’s all to say, I appreciate this opportunity to speak with you.
