← Return to search results
Back to Prindle Institute

Month: June 2026

Posted on

Working at the Speed of AI

Recently, I was talking with a friend whose job requires coding. I asked him how much he uses AI, and he told me he uses it every day. I asked him if it made his job easier, or if he felt as though it lightened the workload. After a little reflection, he said, “Actually, I feel like I work more, not less.” While this is anecdotal, there are similar reports of this phenomenon elsewhere.

Many AI critics (myself included) worry that one of the consequences we might expect as AI continues to proliferate and infiltrate our labor market is a job market crisis. However, this is still speculative. AI has not been operational long enough for us to determine that it will be a net loss in employment. Even as we see some worrying fluctuations in the job market, there remains the possibility that AI will not negatively impact the job market (though I am still personally skeptical about this outcome).

We know that changes in labor technology result in shifts within labor markets. When new technologies are put into use, they often can and do replace workers; however, as AI enthusiasts are quick to point out, they also usher in new forms of work that historically expand the labor market.

What struck me most about the conversation with my friend, however, was his sense that he is working more, not less. This left me wondering: why is that?

In his well-known critique of capitalism, Capital, Karl Marx proposes an answer to this question that is worth remembering. Here, Marx analyzes the effects of the factory and the machine on human labor. Similar to the rhetoric surrounding AI today, there were historical promises that machines and factories would increase efficiency and remove burden from the laborer. Only half of this ended up being true. While economic efficiency increased, the burden was not removed; rather, the burden on the laborer increased.

The explanation Marx offered was that in a world where humans are still required to operate and monitor machines to keep the factory running, they must also adapt to the nature of the machine. This forces us to ask: what is a machine like? Machines do not get tired; they can run 24-hours a day, 7 days a week. They are fast and unrelenting. They do not complain and they do not ask for breaks, holidays, or sick leave.

Of course, this is only true when the machine is working properly and has not broken down from use or malfunction, which is where the human often has to intervene. The human relationship with the machine is a frantic one. Operators must be able to keep up with the pace of the machine, while maintenance workers need to be ever-present and ready to fix malfunctions as fast as possible. With the invention of the ever-producing factory comes the logic of ever-increasing production, and a deep anxiety associated with any break in the action.

As others have pointed out, our hunter-gatherer ancestors may have had more leisurely lives (though their lives were fraught with other problems, like not having penicillin). This is in part because their lives were more determined by natural phenomena, along with the nature of their needs and the technologies available to them being different than ours. In a world without a cheap, instant, and relatively permanent source of light, work at night is limited. Without the climate-controlled environments we have created for our homes and workplaces, there was also greater pressure from the elements, which determined what times of the year certain kinds of work could take place.

Perhaps counter intuitively, the invention of the machine and the factory increased the amount of hours people worked. Marx pointed out that labor laws restricting the amount of time people are permitted to work were a direct result of the machine and the factory. If the automation promises of the past actually increased work and ushered in a newfound need for workplace security and regulation, we might take heed and ask ourselves: in what ways will labor change as we are forced to adapt to the nature of AI?

One of the most noteworthy features of AI is that unlike the industrial machine which automated physical labor, AI automates (or at least attempts to automate) intellectual labor. Perhaps this is why my friend lamented that he is working more, not less. The burden of intellectual labor was lightened for him in one sense: he no longer needs to build codebases from scratch. However, this means that he is now free to take on a significantly higher number of commits at work. The logic is simple. When it is easier to produce a product born of intellectual effort, one should be able to produce more of that product. If AI reduces the required intellectual effort to produce something, then we will be expected to produce a vastly higher amount of that product.

Still, volume alone may not entirely account for the feeling of working more; for instance, we might wonder why we won’t simply end up working the same number of hours, at the same level of effort, while producing more. This is where Marx’s analysis has something else to say. The feeling of working more might be wrought by the relationship we are developing with AI. AI is viewed as an entity with a yet untapped intellectual potential. Especially because its mass adoption is still nascent, there is an intense sense of urgency regarding where and how to apply it. Those who use it may feel an ongoing pressure to keep pace with the intellectual potential (real or imagined) that AI represents.

The factory also ushered in a new kind of uniformity. Before industrialization, the mass production of goods yielded expected variations. Even the most skillfully made handcrafted products carry some variability, the “human touch,” as it were. Machines, by contrast, are especially adept at creating identical products. In fields that adopt AI, we might similarly expect a certain uniformity of the intellectual product to arise. As every educator knows by now, student writing has quickly become uniform. Nearly every post that I encounter on LinkedIn feels as though it was written by the same person.

Another phenomenon the factory gave rise to was a general shift in the skill required of the labor force to manufacture goods. The automatic lathe removes the fine-tuned skills needed by the manual lathe worker; the power loom replaces the dexterity and intense focus required of a traditional weaver; the introduction of extrusion and molding eliminates the need to hand-shape and forge raw materials into useful or beautiful objects.

This is not to say there is no skill involved in the operation of all machinery; on the contrary there are a great number of things one will need to know how to do in order to operate machines well (for a peek inside the complexity of making something from start to finish using factories, check out SmarterEveryDay’s journey of getting a grill scrub brush made). But still, the factory also gives rise to a whole host of jobs that entail highly specific, repetitive tasks that one can become proficient in within a few weeks or months.

We are seeing this skillset shift play out today with the rise of “vibe coders,” AI “musicians,” and prompt engineers that work across all the modalities one can use AI for. A uniform, highly transferable skill set is emerging across various intellectual domains. If one becomes adept at prompting AI, the baseline skills required to produce something like a complete movie script, a musical score, storyboard, and promotional website for the final film effectively collapse into the same skillset. This is just to say that with one skill, namely the skill of knowing how to use AI, one can produce a vast array of products that previously required a larger diversity of skillsets.

This points to one final possibility I want to mention: since AI is supposed to help us get more done, faster, and with less baseline skill in the unique domains that it is theoretically connected to, it may result in the expectation that everyone whose work can be infused with AI should achieve higher output with fewer resources. This should not surprise us since this is precisely what previous forms of automation have done.

The lesson from Marx that we would do well to contemplate is that the introduction of new technology introduces a new force into the world. The AI optimist who views technology merely as a neutral tool of human agency misses a vital historical lesson: the human will is not absolute, and we are not the masters of the universe bending it to suit our needs. We are participants who both act on the world and are continually acted upon by it. Just as much as we might influence what AI is used for, AI will fundamentally reshape what we do and how we do it.

Posted on

Skin in the Game: The Many Virtues of Paying the Taxman

An adage says that death and taxes are the only certainties in life. Some apparently aim to make the second less certain. In recent weeks, some public figures in the United States have advocated for policies that involve zeroing federal income taxes for many Americans. Senator Cory Booker has introduced the “Keep Your Pay” Act, which would eliminate federal taxes on the first $75,000 of income earned by joint filers. Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos recently stated in an interview that those who reside in the bottom half of income earners, with incomes below $50,000, should pay “zero” in federal income taxes.

Many would likely welcome an end to their federal income tax obligations. With housing, food, and fuel costs rising, a significant tax break could ease the pressure at least somewhat. But even during the good times, (almost) no one enjoys their annual bill to the federal government.

So why do we have taxes if no one enjoys them? The obvious reason is to fund the government. But there are more intricate reasons behind tax policies. The U.S. and most other developed nations have progressive tax codes, wherein greater income earners are taxed at a higher percentage. Presumably, the idea here is that a progressive system is more fair, as those who have benefitted the most from current institutions ought to contribute the most to paying their costs. Lawmakers may also use taxes as an incentive. For instance, municipalities often impose “sin taxes,” placing additional levies on goods with negative impacts on public health, like cigarettes, alcohol, and even sugary drinks, hoping the increased cost will push consumers away. Additionally, tax policies may attempt to promote social welfare. For instance, the U.S. has a child tax credit, where caregivers have a greater portion of their income untaxed. Presumably, this is to aid in the costs of caring for a child.

With these ideas in mind, what should we think about the proposal to eliminate federal income taxes for some? We should immediately note as a qualifier that this would not amount to no taxation. Most Americans also pay state and other local taxes, as well as non-income federal taxes (e.g., 30% of federal revenue comes from payroll taxes for Social Security and Medicare). Nonetheless, one might argue that a reduction in taxes for the middle and lower classes will promote social welfare by keeping money in the hands of working people who earned it. About one-third of Americans have insufficient cash to pay for an emergency $400 expense, most lack the savings for a surprise $1000 bill, and as of April 2026, inflation is once again outpacing wage growth. Thus, anything that increases the take-home pay of low and middle-income earners may serve to help them overcome these issues.

However, there are reasons for concern. First, some may find the math troubling. The federal government in the U.S. currently has a budget deficit of $1.2 trillion and carries a growing debt of over $39 trillion. The bottom 50% of income earners paid approximately 3% of all federal income taxes in 2025, accounting for $63 billion in federal revenue. While a 3% drop in revenue is relatively small, it’s reasonable to worry about cutting revenue while already in the red.

Yet, I find a different worry more troubling. Specifically, eliminating income tax for more of the population may affect civic life. This is for two reasons. First, when individuals are not taxed, they may have less motivation to participate in the political process. Second, our attitudes towards our fellow citizens may track their status as taxpayers. Let us consider each in turn.

In a previous column, I expressed trepidation about taxes and fees on ecotourism. Specifically, I worried that taxes on visitors to natural spaces may transform our relationship to those spaces through a process called commodification. When something is commodified, it is treated as a commodity – something with a price tag that can be bought and sold. My concern was that taxes and fees may cause visitors to view natural spaces like other consumer goods.

This is relevant to taxation. One might see taxes as a sort of price to access public services. In this sense, it commodifies our relationship to the government. However, this may work positively here. When we conceive of ourselves as literally paying for federal policy, we may adopt more of a consumer mindset – we have expectations in terms of what we ought to receive, and when these expectations are not meant, we demand better. How do we make these demands? By participating in the political process. Afterall, when politicians or public figures aim to stoke motivation or outrage, they often refer to policies as being funded by your tax dollars. When someone is not taxed, they may not view themselves as being in the position to reasonably make demands. The more who are not taxed, the more who may disengage.

This theoretical explanation bears out in the data. Higher income individuals are significantly more likely to vote than lower income individuals. And this gap appears to be widening. One’s level of income, and by extension, whether they pay federal income taxes, seems to correlate with their likelihood of voting. Thus, if you reduce the tax base, you may reduce the number of politically engaged citizens.

Of course, it is worth noting that motivation may be just one factor among many driving lessened turnout among lower income voters. They are more likely to be relatively less educated which is predicative of voting likelihood, may live in an area with fewer polling places and longer waits, and face other barriers to voting that higher income individuals do not.

Further still, in addition to sapping the motivation of those who do not pay federal income taxes, eliminating such taxes may send the message to these voters that they are outside the body politic. This occurred clearly in the past. In the early days of the U.S., only property-owning white men had the right to vote. Additionally, the first federal income tax was not created until 1861, while states collected their revenue through property and poll taxes. Take these points in conjunction – property and voting were taxed, while only property owners could vote, so voting was a right only for tax-payers.

But this message was not wholly abandoned in the past. During the 2012 Presidential campaign, then-Republican candidate Mitt Romney’s campaign was marred by controversy when a recording of his comments at a fundraiser leaked to the press. At the event, Romney stated that 47 percent of Americans “pay no income tax,” claimed they “will vote for [President Obama] no matter what” and that they “are [people] dependent upon the government, who believe that they are victims.” He went on to say that his “job is not to worry about those people” and that he’ll “never convince them they should take personal responsibility and care for their lives.” Romney’s comments suggest an attitude of scorn towards those who do not pay income taxes – that they demonstrate a faulty character and appear incapable of contributing positively towards public life. I am not accusing Romney of claiming that these people should not be able to vote. But rather, that the attitudes here suggest a view of inferiority which could be used to justify disenfranchising these individuals. A 2014 poll, with Romney’s comments still in recent memory, found that 50% of self-identified Republicans agreed that only people who pay taxes should have a right to vote, and a 2022 study of electoral attitudes found that 16.5% of respondents supported disenfranchising individuals who are U.S. citizens but pay no income taxes.

In the U.S., we often center our story of national origin on taxation. American colonists began to feel discontent towards British rule following the taxes imposed by the Stamp Act of 1765. The Townshend Acts, a series of further taxes, magnified this discontent, which arguably reached a crescendo following the Tea Act of 1773 and the subsequent Boston Tea Party. There is a real sense in which the nation was founded on an opposition to taxes. But the rallying cry of the independence movement – no taxation without representation – did not demand an end to taxes, full stop. Their outrage was about a political process in which they had no input altering their lives, not an ideological objection to taxation.

Within democratic societies, taxation has a valuable role to play. Beyond funding government programs, it encourages citizens to view themselves as part of the state. When it’s our money funding the government it, in fact, leads us to demand better government by causing us to feel more motivated to participate in the decision-making process. Further, being collectively taxed helps our fellow citizens view us as being engaged in a cooperative project with them. The American project began with an objection to the idea of taxation without representation. But when we have representation without taxation, it may push us towards functionally having neither.

Posted on

Mosquitoes, Screwworms, and Revisiting the Problem of Control

In recent months, I’ve found myself thinking back, with some fondness, to my time working in Galveston, Texas. From 2021 to 2023, I was a postdoc at the University of Texas Medical Branch. When not working, I spent my time riding my bicycle around the island, surfing, and drinking. With my rose-tinted spectacles on, it was fabulous. Without them, there were many issues that irritated me daily. It’s Texas, so obviously it was hot. Very hot. It was also an island connected to the mainland via a vehicle-only bridge, so unless I made use of a car, I was trapped there. Finally, there were the mosquitoes. They loved me, but not I them, and whenever I got bitten (and I got bitten a lot if I wasn’t careful), I would develop a sizable welt that would itch beyond all reason. And while the mosquitoes were only present seasonally, those seasons can cover a lot of the year. So, when I catch myself thinking fondly about Galveston and considering going back for a visit, I must remind myself how much I despise those little bloodsuckers.

It should come as no surprise, then, that back in July 2022, right in the middle of mosquito season, I wrote a piece for the Prindle Post on the implications of using gene drives to eradicate them from the face of the earth. In that piece, I explored a tension at the heart of the technology: while gene drives could potentially save countless lives by eliminating disease-carrying mosquitoes, they also represent an unprecedented attempt to exert control over the natural world.

The reason I bring this up now, while I’m sitting in the UK, where I appear unappealing to our native mosquito breeds, is because another creepy crawly has been making the news: the New World Screwworm. The screwworm is a parasitic type of fly that lays its eggs in wounds, the nose, or other openings in livestock, wildlife, pets, and, on rare occasions, people. These eggs hatch, and then the larva begin to eat at the animal. Unlike maggots, however, these larvae do not restrict themselves to dead or necrotic tissue. Screwworm larvae eat living flesh, and infestations can become so severe that the larva can burrow into the animal, make existing wounds even larger, and even kill their host if left untreated.

While the screwworm had once been prevalent across the US, as outlined in a recent Financial Times article, it had been eradicated from the United States in 1966 and, by the 1980s and 1990s, suppressed as far south as Panama via a sterile-fly barrier program. The method for doing this was relatively simple. Female screwworms mated only once. So, if they mated with a sterile male, no offspring would be created. This insight led scientists to release weekly waves of sterile males to drive the population numbers down. And while the screwworm could never be fully driven to extinction using this method, it could be contained through the strategic geographical deployment of these sterile males.

However, in 2023, this plan started to falter. The reasons for it are suspected to be multifaceted. The aforementioned Financial Times article notes that:

Experts point to a combination of expanding livestock production in former buffer zones, increased movement of animals through the region, unprecedented human migration flows through the Darién Gap and possible weaknesses in the sterile-fly programme itself: the sterile males were becoming less attractive to females, and older strains that were losing fitness were not replaced quickly enough…

Today, the screwworm has not only made its way back up Central America, but is now back in Texas. This, of course, is of concern for the State’s roughly 153,000 cattle farms and its roughly 13 million cattle.

So, what’s to be done, then?

Well, one option, as with mosquitoes, is to use gene drives so that rather than simply preventing the female screwworm from reproducing, we have it create offspring who are likely to be sterile, a trait that subsequent generations will possess. This sterile trait propagates through the population until, eventually, there are so few unaffected insects that the population eventually collapses. Whether this is an ethically acceptable thing to do, however, is up for debate.

According to Gregory E. Kaebnick and others, in a rather prescient 2025 article in Science, the answer is a qualified yes. They claim that the screwworm presents a rare case where genome-driven extinction might be ethically defensible because of the severe suffering and economic harm it causes. They do note that this may only be the case because the species is overwhelmingly harmful, because there is a lack of alternatives, and because the screwworm’s eradication would prevent substantial suffering and economic damage.

Yet, the issues I raised in my 2022 piece remain: that we may be seeking to exert a degree of control over the natural world, for which we are ill-equipped to handle. After all, even a brief glimpse back through the annals illustrates how bad we are at effectively managing these large-style ecological projects (see the 1935 introduction of cane toads in Australia, the 1883 introduction of mongooses to Hawai’i, or the near worldwide distribution of cats). Despite these being instances of failures involving introduced species rather than targeted eradication, they nevertheless illustrate how poorly we predict ecological outcomes. Even if one can reconcile the principled objections to species extinction — and that is not a given — there remain the practical issues of what impact the creation of an ecological vacuum may have.

The obvious response is that not every species occupies the same ecological niche. Mosquitoes, for all their faults, are food for fish, birds, bats, and countless other creatures. They also pollinate certain plants. Remove them, and there is at least a plausible concern that something important disappears alongside them. The screwworm, by contrast, is a specialist parasite, and it is not clear what role it plays in the wider ecological web. Indeed, it is pretty hard to point to a positive contribution made by an insect whose primary claim to fame is eating living animals from the inside out.

What’s more, this is part of what makes the screwworm such an interesting test case. If one is ever going to argue for the deliberate extinction of a species, surely it should be one that causes extraordinary suffering while providing little obvious benefit. The screwworm is not cute. It is not charismatic. There is not, as far as I’m aware, a screwworm fan club. If a case cannot be made for eliminating it, then it is difficult to imagine a case being made for any species at all.

And yet, for reasons I still cannot quite articulate, I’m hesitant.

I think part of that hesitation comes from the fact that every generation seems convinced that it finally possesses the knowledge necessary to master nature. Normally, however, nature responds by reminding us that this is not the case.

I guess the question is not merely whether we can predict the ecological consequences of eliminating the screwworm. The question is: What sort of relationship we ought to have with the natural world? There is an important difference between controlling a species because doing so is necessary to prevent immense suffering and controlling a species simply because it inconveniences us. In my 2022 piece, I drew on Michael Sandel’s argument that modern technology can sometimes reflect a problematic “drive to mastery.” That is, a desire to remake the world according to our preferences rather than accepting it as is. The danger is not that every intervention is wrong. Rather, it is that we come to view every problem as something that must be solved through ever greater control.

The screwworm may be one of those rare cases where intervention is justified. It might even be obligated. After all, the suffering it causes is substantial. The economic damage is immense. Existing methods of control appear increasingly fragile if not downright obsolete. If there is a species for which a carefully governed gene-drive program could be ethically defensible, the screwworm is probably near, if not at, the top of the list.

But even if that is true, I think we should resist the temptation to treat the screwworm as proof that deliberate extinction is unproblematic. As I’ve learned working in a law school, hard cases make bad precedents. A world in which we eliminate a flesh-eating parasite may be a better world. A world in which we become comfortable deciding which species deserve to exist may not be.

As for me, I’m torn. The philosopher in me worries about humanity’s endless desire for control. The former Texas resident in me remembers the mosquitoes. And the cattle farmer in Texas, should the screwworm continue its northward march, is probably not especially interested in either position’s musing.

Sometimes ethical questions do not present us with a choice between good and bad options. Sometimes they present us with a choice between competing risks, competing values, and competing uncertainties. The screwworm may be one of those cases. Whether we ultimately decide to drive it to extinction or merely push it back once more, I think a sense of humility is essential. After all, history has a habit of punishing the overconfident.

Posted on

We Can Handle The Truth

Steven Spielberg’s Disclosure Day is, among other things, a story about the right to know (Spoiler Alert: I discuss some of the plot points of this film). As the film unfolds, we follow several characters who are on a mission to tell the planet about the existence of aliens, whose existence has been covered up by a company called Wardex.

The film portrays two main ideological fronts: “team disclosure” and “team cover up.” Team Disclosure is primarily composed of Daniel Kellner, Margaret Fairchild, and Hugo Wakefield, who are racing against an army of agents trying to thwart them, so that they can broadcast a trove of files that Kellner has stolen to the world. Team Cover Up is led by Noah Scanlon, the head of Wardex, and his employees, trying to stop the disclosure.

In the middle of these ideological fronts stands Kellner’s girlfriend, Jane Blakenship. When Kellner finally reveals to Blakenship what he is trying to do, she is horrified by the possibility that telling the world would be completely destabilizing. Her concern is similar to Scanlon’s concern, though we have some reason to think that Scanlon is also motivated by greed and power, whereas Blakenship’s motives are more selfless. Blakenship ultimately joins Team Disclosure.

Setting aside any misguided motives, the film poses an interesting and important question about epistemology and knowledge: What is the right to knowledge or information grounded in, in the first place? Is there some universal human right to know certain facts about the universe (such as whether or not there are aliens)? Does this human right to know about the universe take precedence over the risk that certain disclosures may have to the stability of society (and if so, when)? If someone has access to facts that fall within the sphere of things we all have a right to know and is in a position to disclose these facts, do they have an obligation to do so?

The right to knowledge is crucially connected to other important rights. If one is committed to a right to freedom of choice, thought, or the right to life, it is not difficult to understand why the right to knowledge becomes important. Consider, for instance, how free choice requires knowledge about the world. When I make a decision without knowledge, receiving additional knowledge may change the decision I make, and thus allow me to make a “freer” choice.

For instance, if I decide to go swimming in the lake, and then I learn that there has recently been a chemical spill in the lake, I will change my decision for the better. This example illustrates the positive impact that having information does for us in our decision making. I am surely more free when I have this information and my interest in protecting my life is much better preserved as well.

However, we should not assume that more information is always better when it comes to protecting our interests. For instance, imagine that someone is at the doctor’s office and needs to decide about a treatment. They learn that they have two options: either have surgery or take medication. Because they are not a medical expert, there is a limit to the amount of information they can comprehend. Every time a healthcare provider informs their patient of options, they need to decide how much detail to give. If they give too little information, they run the risk of violating the moral criteria required for informed consent. However, if they give too much information, they may inhibit the patient’s ability to make the best choice. Giving non-experts information at an expert level of granularity may simply be confusing. So, while the right to knowledge is important, it does not necessarily translate into a duty to share all information in all contexts.

In addition to the bundle of rights that a right to knowledge may be connected to, knowledge about the world is crucial for accountability. When it comes to the right to know, one of the more pressing epistemic arenas is anywhere that power relations exist, e.g., coercive governmental power or corporate power. When power asymmetries exist and one person or group can use their power to influence the lives of others, the right to knowledge serves as a way to protect those who are subjected to power. This is precisely what is at stake in Disclosure Day. Wardex’s suppression of the alien files is not merely a corporate secret, it is an exercise of power over an entire planet’s right to know about something that concerns them.

A significant number of modern political societies have recognized this very point and have enshrined the legal right to information in some form or another. In the United States, we have the Freedom of Information Act. In India, there is The Right to Information Act. In 2002, Mexico passed a particularly unique and groundbreaking version of the right to information; this law requires information to be shared when it concerns important human rights violations, even if sharing such information is a threat to national security. While many countries throughout the world recognize the right to information, none have a provision quite like this.

While having a legal recognition is important for securing a right to know, implementation of these laws is often subject to controversy. In the U.S., there has been a long and protracted debate about the Epstein Files and whether or not the U.S. government has fulfilled its obligation to release information in a sufficiently transparent way. Critics argue that the government’s redactions serve only to protect an economic elite class of serial abusers while at the same time causing further harm to the survivors of the horrible ordeal.

We can return again to the core question that Disclosure Day forces us to confront: to what extent does the public have a right to know facts, when sometimes those facts may lead to chaos? Was Kellner right? Should we learn the truth about aliens, even if the disclosure carries a great deal of risk? I believe the answer is yes, and I am on Team Disclosure for three reasons.

First, society is often in a state of chaos. I am not so naïve to think we will always survive the chaos, but I also do not see any reason to think that one piece of information will be the downfall of us all. One criticism I have of the film is the depiction of the disclosure itself, where the world grinds to a halt and watches in silence as the data trove is broadcasted. Humans are so accustomed to sensational news that I wonder if we wouldn’t treat this like every other piece of news; there will be debate, denial of its legitimacy, hot takes from YouTubers, advertising campaigns trying to figure out how to reach their new intergalactic audience, and the whole gamut of responses we see in everyday sensationalism.

Second, facts about our galactic neighbors strike me as information that really does concern everyone. There is a real distinction between private information and public information and while there is a fuzzy middle, it is hard to argue that knowledge of intelligent off-world life falls in that vague space. The question of intelligent life outside of earth relates to our deepest and oldest questions about the origins of our own existence and the nature of our being.

Third, knowledge of alien life is clearly political and has serious implications for how humanity governs itself. I am, in my heart, an optimist about what we might find out there. It is entirely possible that an intelligent species capable of crossing the cosmos has transcended the violent impulses that have plagued our own history, or may never have developed weapons at all. But the very fact that another life form has managed to reach us tells us something important: they possess technology that exceeds our own, and where technological superiority exists, the capacity for superior weaponry exists. We also know nothing of their politics, their history, or how they have handled conflict among themselves or with others.

Of course, these are not reasons for us to be hostile out of the gate, but they are reasons to take the question of first contact seriously and we will need to know: are they friend or foe? I know enough about human history to know how beings that believe they are superior treat those they perceive as inferior, and that pattern of behavior is not one we can assume is unique to us. Either way, the question of how to respond to these visitors surely concerns every person on this planet. I for one would not want to be left out of the decision-making procedure that my own government may make in response. To know what the government knows about non-human intelligent life seems crucial for any people that want to retain reasonable public influence over the powers that govern us.

Posted on

On Cruise Ships and Vital Needs [Part 2]

Cruise ships are a common target of ire. In my last article, I turned to consider whether the climate crisis provides yet another reason for us to refrain from taking such journeys. In the process, I introduced Henry Shue’s distinction between subsistence emissions (those that are necessary for the fulfillment of our vital needs) and luxury emissions (those that are not). According to Shue, while we might have a moral obligation to reduce our luxury emissions, we have no such obligation when it comes to our subsistence emissions.

All of this means that our specific climate-based obligations really come down to what things count as “vital needs.” As I noted previously, it seems that these needs must be either subjective (that is, determined entirely by the preferences and desires of the individual) or objective (that is, essential for all people, regardless of their desires and preferences). But problems arise with both approaches. A subjective list would be far too permissive – allowing someone to count anything as a vital need. An objective list, on the other hand, might be too restrictive – failing to include things that are very important for some, but not for others.

I spend a lot of time thinking about how this distinction applies to our choice to have children. In a now infamous paper, Paul A. Murtaugh and Michael G. Schlax demonstrated that when an individual in the US chooses to have a child, they add an additional 4720.5 tonnes of CO2 to the atmosphere. That’s around 59 tonnes per year spread over the parent’s 80-year lifespan. To put this number into perspective, that’s enough carbon to undo the work of 684 teenagers who choose to adopt comprehensive recycling for the rest of their lives. Put simply, having fewer children is one of the most effective ways that we can combat climate change. But are we under a moral obligation to do so? If having children – i.e., procreation – is a vital need, then the answer is “no.”

But would procreation appear on an objective list of vital needs? It seems not. More than 20% of US adults are now “childfree by choice,” meaning that having children clearly isn’t a vital need for these individuals. In fact, for many of them, not having children might very well be a vital need. Does this mean that the emissions associated with having children are luxury emissions? Elsewhere, I’ve argued that they are. But maybe it’s more complicated than that. It remains true that procreation is enormously important for some, such that their lives will be severely diminished if they never have children. How can this be reconciled with the aforementioned fact that, for some, the exact opposite is true?

One way is to approach the relevant vital need in a more nuanced way. Perhaps the objective vital need in question isn’t simply “procreation,” but rather “creating the kind of family you want.” Couched in this way, this vital need accommodates both those who don’t want children (and for whom “the kind of family you want” is small) and those who do want children (and for whom “the kind of family you want” is somewhat larger).

A similar approach can make sense of the education example I provided last time. It’s not that our (objective) vital need is a specific kind of education, but rather the education that one needs to live their desired life. For some, this might only necessitate a K-12 education. For others, it might require trade school. For yet others, it might require a trio of doctorates.

In a sense, what we’re now talking about are objective vital needs that are phrased in broad enough terms to accommodate the subjective desires and preferences of the individual in question.

Such a solution seems promising – until we realize that introducing even this amount of subjectivity might see the return of the “overly-permissive” concern. What do we make, for example, of a couple for whom “the family they want” contains fifteen children? Must we count the emissions of all of these children as subsistence? Or do we need to introduce some kind of objective limit? Must we – in light of the climate crisis – modify the vital need in question to be something like “creating the kind of family you want, up to a reasonable size”? Perhaps this is a necessary move. But then how do we determine precisely what this reasonable size is?

These are difficult questions – and ones that take us far from our starting point. What’s important, however, is that even if we adopt a view of vital needs that is semi-subjective (as we did above), there is little chance that “going on a cruise” will appear on that list. And if that’s the case, then it remains the case that (as we first suspected) we are, most likely, under a moral obligation to refrain from taking such emissions-intensive voyages.

Posted on

On Cruise Ships and Vital Needs

Throughout April and May, international headlines were dominated by a deadly hantavirus outbreak on a Dutch cruise ship. The saga provided the perfect opportunity for many to renew their critiques of the cruise industry, asking why – in a post-COVID world – anyone would want to go on a cruise. They’re expensive, they’re exploitative, they pollute the oceans, and – as evidenced by recent events – they’re ideal vectors for the spread of disease.

As someone who works in the field of climate justice, my main concern with cruise ships is (predictably) their contribution to the worsening climate crisis. Just one cruise company – Carnival Corporation – emits around 9.5 million tons of CO² annually. That’s the same quantity of emissions as the entire state of Rhode Island. On an individual level, the daily carbon emissions of a cruise vacationer are around eight times that of an equivalent land-based vacationer.

In 2011, nearly all countries agreed to limit the global average temperature rise to no more than 2°C. Achieving this goal will require us to keep our global carbon expenditure below 2900GtCO². At the time of writing, we’ve got slightly less than 412GtCO² left. That’s about 49.6 tons of CO² for every person on the planet. Here in the USA, we each emit an average of 14.2 tons of CO² per year – which means we’ll burn through our equal share of this carbon budget in less than three and a half years. After that point we will, essentially, be co-opting someone else’s share. Recognition of this fact should hopefully spur us on to do what we can to reduce our individual carbon emissions. But working out precisely how we should do this – what kinds of reductions it’s fair to demand from us – is the tricky part. After all, almost every aspect of our lives – from eating, to traveling, to powering our homes – contributes to carbon emissions. Are we under an obligation to make reductions in all of these areas?

Probably not. And Henry Shue’s distinction between subsistence and luxury emissions provides us with some helpful machinery to understand why. Since it’s vital that we avoid climate catastrophe – and since doing so requires us to stay within a global carbon budget – a sort of prioritization of emissions is necessary. On the back of this, Shue describes “subsistence emissions” as those that stem from the fulfillment of vital needs, while “luxury emissions” are those that do not. Shue argues that “it is not equitable to ask some people to surrender necessities so that other people can retain luxuries.” In other words, each of us has a moral obligation to reduce (as much as possible) our luxury emissions, but not our subsistence emissions.

Conceptually, it’s a simple distinction. In practice, however, it’s much more complicated. What, precisely, counts as a “vital need”? Food, water, and shelter seem obvious contenders. But even there, we must be careful. The fact that I need food to survive doesn’t mean that all of my diet-related emissions will count as subsistence. If, for example, I’m full after dinner,  then a superfluous late-night Hot Pocket won’t count as fulfilling a “vital need.”

So where do cruises fit into all of this? At first glance, it might seem that a cruise is a clear example of a luxury emission. But Shue’s machinery is more nuanced than this. As I noted when discussing the carbon cost of gaming, our vital needs go beyond mere survival and likely also cover important parts of our social lives. And there’s no doubt that – for some – cruises are enormously important. They’re a source of joy and fulfillment; an opportunity to forge social bonds and explore the world.

Whether cruise emissions count as subsistence really comes down to whether or not our list of “vital needs” is subjective or objective. What do we mean by this? Well, to say that this list is subjective is to say that it’s determined entirely by the preferences and desires of the relevant individual. Put simply, if someone decides that something is – for them – a vital need, then it is. If the list is subjective, then it’d be quite possible for a cruise to be included. The problem, however, is that taking a subjective approach to vital needs seems far too permissive. Essentially, it would mean that anything goes. Someone who insists that a weekly flight to Paris is a “vital need” could then count the emissions resulting from their flights as “subsistence” – and therefore be under no obligation to reduce those emissions.

It would seem, then, that the list of vital needs must instead be objective – that is, essential for all people, regardless of their preferences and desires. Perhaps I don’t really care about keeping warm in the depths of a cold winter. Be that as it may, there is a fact-of-the-matter that without sufficient warmth, I will not survive. The same is true of food and water. These are vital needs for all people. Would taking a cruise appear on this objective list of vital needs? Certainly not. There’s no reason to think that such a niche experience is – objectively – essential for all humans. We can demonstrate as much by considering all of the humans who manage perfectly well without ever having set foot on a cruise ship.

But a new problem arises – might our list of vital needs now be too restrictive? As I’ve argued before, education is a good candidate for a vital need. And, if so, then emissions associated with this activity (the carbon cost of getting to school, keeping the classroom lights on, and using a laptop to complete an essay) should count as subsistence. But here’s the thing: less than 40% of Americans hold a college degree. This indicates that many are perfectly capable of living without a post-secondary education, and would seem to imply that higher education has no place on an objective list of vital needs.

Perhaps, then, something is missing from both the subjective approach and the objective approach. Perhaps an alternative is required. This is what I will turn to consider next time.

Posted on

Employee Monitoring and Your New AI Supervisor

Meta (the parent company of Facebook), began to extensively monitor employee computer activities in April as part of training AI agents. After ongoing pushback from employees, they have recently implemented some constraints such as 30-minute surveillance breaks. The situation speaks to the complicated way artificial intelligence and digital surveillance can mix in the workplace.

Employee monitoring software tracks employee actions such as keystrokes and mouse movements to ensure the employee is working when and how their employer wants them to. The level of invasiveness varies, but almost 80% of US firms use some kind of employee monitoring software and 55% even monitor call/email tone and content. Some of this surveillance is comparatively mild, such as time and attendance logging. However, artificial intelligence enables monitoring at a scale and level of granularity previously impossible. Software makers often recommend employee monitoring for improvement, not punishment, but even if employers follow that advice, should employees be so extensively surveilled in the workplace? What might justify it?

One possibility would be a general allowance for employers to practice business as they see fit. We might think, all things being equal, that the government should not interfere in how employers run their businesses. After all, part of the aim of market-based economics is to unlock the benefits of differences in employer approach and management style. But all things are not equal. Granting employers the freedom to surveil comes at the expense of substantial employee freedom, respect, and privacy. And there are very real legal limits to employer power – employers are not free to beat their employees even if it is their preferred management practice.

Alternatively, it could be argued that overweening workplace surveillance is self-limiting. People either find such monitoring unacceptable and leave the workplace, or they tacitly consent to it. However, even if the problem generally takes care of itself, this does not justify allowing it. Almost any practice can be allowed under the argument that employees are always free to find a new job. It may still make sense to have legal standards of acceptable behavior. Moreover, the ability of employees to “vote with their feet” is often highly limited. A slow labor market, limited opportunities in an area, or widespread adoption of workplace monitoring in an industry can all prevent an employee from exercising their exit option. (I’ve previously discussed some of the challenges of consenting to working conditions.)

Another potential argument is that employee monitoring often occurs via employer property, such as employer-provided computers and employer-owned premises. First, it is notable how slippery consent is here. There is often no way for employees to not work from such materials, so they cannot meaningfully consent to these practices unless they do not want to work at all. Second, again, while one often can do what they want with their property, limits can be imposed to protect the rights and well-being of others. For example, one is not allowed to booby trap their house.

What about the ostensible benefits of employee monitoring? Presumably the primary benefit of such surveillance, and why employers engage in it, is to increase employee productivity. Should this factor into the ethical debate? This depends on our ethical approach.

Under ethical approaches that emphasize respect for people as such, as opposed to treating people instrumentally for their economic contributions, even the idea of sacrificing dignified treatment for productivity is ethically dubious. Other ethical approaches instead look at the over-all good that would result. From these perspectives, it is at least theoretically possible that so much good results from employee monitoring that it outweighs the harm to employees.

But, in fact, studies indicate the relationship between employee monitoring and employee productivity is complicated. Careful monitoring can increase employee output in some cases, but it can also damage trust, autonomy, and employee morale, ultimately decreasing productivity.

That said, the technology is still under development. If employee monitoring software reliably increased employee productivity, would it then be ethically justifiable?

Plausibly, with an increase in employee productivity, a company can produce its goods more cheaply, leading to some general public benefit. But this is highly idealized. In practice, negative externalities (such as pollution), harmful or addictive products (such as tobacco or, arguably, social media), and other factors, complicate the path from company efficiency to public benefit. All a successful product needs to do is satisfy the short-term desires of a particular customer base; it doesn’t need to lead to an overall increase in human well-being. In short, improving employee productivity is a compelling argument at a board of directors meeting, but of less clear ethical significance.

Moreover, it’s important to recall what’s on the other side of this discussion about economic efficiency — employee freedom and well-being. As a matter of practice, we do allow companies to behave somewhat autocratically, such as deciding how their employees dress and spend their time at work. But just like government infringements on freedoms, we should demand compelling justification for such restrictions. The more onerous the imposition from the employer, the stronger justification we should demand – workplace monitoring can be far more serious than having to wear a uniform. Depending on the invasiveness of the specific employee monitoring software, it can represent a serious infringement on employee privacy, autonomy, and dignity, resulting in deep concerns. If we value employee well-being, then workplace monitoring should be highly restricted unless carefully designed to preserve employee privacy and dignity. Employee productivity is an insufficiently compelling argument to overturn the prioritization of human dignity.

Posted on

Pressing the Button: Analyzing a Meme

Over the past few weeks, the internet collectively has been gripped by a dilemma – red or blue? The discussion was spurred by this viral post:

Finally, discourse dealing with an ethical quandary! Seems like the perfect thing for a column here at The Prindle Post to examine. I will refer to this case study as the “Button Dilemma.”

The purpose of my writing here is not to convince you that there is one clear or more defensible answer to the Button Dilemma. But rather, I wish to consider the moral principles and reasoning that may justify choosing to press red or blue.

Game Theory and Rational Choice

To analyze the Button Dilemma many turn to game theory, an interdisciplinary field that studies rational decision-making and optimal choice. Specifically, game theory considers how best to secure one’s interests, particularly in situations where others’ choices are uncertain. We can analyze the various options in the Button Dilemma through the lens of game theory, and thus assess their rationality, using a grid:

Others’ Choices
<50% Press Blue >50% Press Blue
Your Choice Press Red You Survive + Blue Pressers Die Everyone Survives
Press Blue You Die + Blue Pressers Die Everyone Survives

The grid helps reveal that the most rational choice, in terms of best situating one’s self, is to press the red button. Why? Presumably, the best outcome is that everyone survives. The worst outcome is that you and the blue pressers die. It is slightly better if you survive, even if the blue pressers die. Pressing red guarantees that you will not die, and it could still be the case that everyone survives despite your choice.

On the other hand, pressing blue seems sub-optimal. Like pressing red, it is compatible with the best outcome, everyone surviving. However, by pressing blue you enable the worst outcome to occur.

Thus, pressing red appears to be the optimal strategy. You guarantee against the worst outcome and may still secure the best outcome.

Of course, one might argue that by pressing red, you make the best outcome less likely. The majority must press blue for everyone to survive, and pressing red takes us one step further from that.

However, it is worth considering what one could reasonably foresee. It theoretically could be the case that your button press is the deciding one. However, this is unreasonable to expect. Given the sheer number of people pressing – more than 8 billion if everyone must decide  – it is a near statistical impossibility that your press will make a difference. In terms of expected outcomes, you can anticipate surviving if you press red, but what will happen if you press blue is unclear.

So, it seems obvious what the rational choice is, pressing red. Doing so secures our own survival and is compatible with everyone surviving. In fact, if everyone chose red, then no one would die!

Of course, two issues remain. First, morality is often at odds with rationality. Often, morality may demand that we make what appears to be an irrational choice, at least through the lens of self-interest. Second, based on the above poll, it is virtually certain that at least some will press blue. Given this, what should we think of those who acknowledge this, yet nonetheless press red?

The Arguments for Pressing Blue

It is through these two issues that the moral arguments favoring pressing blue emerge. First, we can acknowledge that pressing red is the optimal strategic choice but nonetheless contend that one still ought to press blue. This is because morality may sometimes demand that we sacrifice our own well-being to benefit others.

In an incredibly influential paper, Peter Singer asks his reader to imagine walking by a pond where they see a small child drowning. Singer claims we are morally required to save the child, even if this means ruining your shoes. This choice may be irrational since there’s nothing you clearly stand to gain by saving the child and doing so will cost you something. But morality appears to require it. The mere fact that a choice may make you worse-off does not grant moral carte blanche. Thus, some argue that pressing blue is a form of morally required sacrifice; putting yourself at risk may save others and thus you ought to do so.

Some, in arguing that one ought to press blue, also consider a world where all the blue pressers died. Their claim is that this would result in an unpleasant, uncooperative world; the survivors would strictly be calculating individuals who put their own survival first, while very considerate people willing to sacrifice for others would be purged. This gets at a second argument for pressing blue, an argument from virtues.

Virtues are positive character traits, demonstrated through certain regular patterns of behavior, as well as one’s thoughts and feelings. They are the central focus of virtue ethics, the moral theory which holds that the morality of an act is determined by the character of the person performing it, rather than the act’s outcome or compliance with moral rules. If an act demonstrates that the person performing it is virtuous (e.g, by demonstrating compassion), then the act is good.

The idea behind the argument from virtue is that the willingness to press the red button indicates a defect in one’s character, a vice. In this case, one might argue that pressing red demonstrates an insufficient concern for the lives and well-being of others, callousness. Alternatively, pressing red may come from not trusting the majority to choose blue. Here, the vice may instead be cynicism. Either way, depending on one’s reasoning, the choice to press red could suggest a vice.

The Arguments for Pressing Red

To most effectively argue for pressing red, we should consider how a red proponent might respond to the arguments above. Let’s begin with the virtue point. In Aristotle’s account of the virtues, he defines them as a “mean” or middle ground between two extremes of behavior, one extreme being too much and the other too little. It would be cowardly for me to stand by and do nothing while someone steals an old woman’s purse, but it would be reckless for me to charge the thief if he took out a gun. Both are vices opposed to bravery.

One might argue that pressing blue indicates a vice of foolhardiness, as you risk your life to minimally improve others’ odds of survival. Again, as outlined in the game theory section, any individual choice is not impactful – hence, the idea of recklessness. If pressing blue made a greater impact, perhaps it would be virtuous to do so. But since the outcome is determined by billions of choices, risking one’s life for minimally better odds of others surviving may be reckless.

Additionally, one may also question whether there is indeed a moral requirement to subject oneself to any amount of deadly risk to save another’s life. Notice in Singer’s case, the sacrifice required of one is minimal, namely a pair of shoes. In the Button Dilemma, you will die if you press blue and an insufficient number of others choose similarly.

A proponent of pressing red may thus argue that it would be great of you to press blue, but it is not required. We might say the blue pressers get extra moral credit, but the red pressers do not deserve blame. Moral theorists refer to such acts as supererogatory. And this idea may capture what is happening in this case. When the cost of saving a life is as small as a pair of shoes, as we see with Singer, we are required to do it. But asking someone to risk literal life and limb to help another in need may be too strong of a requirement.

Still, the proponent of pressing blue can raise questions about both arguments here, specifically regarding the numbers. The arguments for pressing red emphasize the number of individuals involved to demonstrate how insignificant our choices are. But this cuts both ways. If any significant minority of people choose blue, then there will be literally billions of lives at stake in this case. Even if one’s choice raises the probability of everyone surviving by an exceedingly small amount, the sheer number of lives at stake may counterbalance the low likelihood of making a difference. When everything is accounted for, the Button Dilemma may, at its heart, raise a question about whether we ought to risk our lives to save a small number, or even one person, who, perhaps through an irrational decision, now has their life at risk.

Conclusion

Admittedly, it was fun for me to see the discourse surrounding the Button Dilemma sweep across the internet. Although it eventually went the way of the trolley problem and became meme-ified, the Button Dilemma touches on foundational moral issues when explored in earnest. Whether we think we should press red or blue may reveal something about our views on what we owe to others, the relationship between morality and rationality, and the kind of person we feel we should strive to be. As with many dilemmas, what may truly be revealed isn’t some universal truth that might defuse the conflict once and for all, but an understanding of ourselves and the way we weigh competing values. Quite the set of insights for a meme.