Category Archives: Infrastructural Theory

a sense of an enclosed present, a total present, severed from history

I was yesterday years old when I learned (courtesy David Higgins’ Reverse Colonization, which I may write about directly if time allows) that David Harvey—yes, that’s Lovable Marxist Granddad David Harvey™—can count among his many achievements having been a minor contributor to Mike Moorcock’s run at New Worlds, where he published a piece of fiction and an editorial on (among other topics) entropy.

Higgins’s discussion of Harvey’s NW stuff reminded me of one of Harvey’s better-known academic contributions, namely the notion of “time-space compression” as a function of capitalism, which is implicated in the emergence of the postmodern condition. I’ve been meaning to look that up for a while now, not least because I’ve assumed it’s related to a few underdeveloped squibs that leapt out at me during my (rather tormented and difficult) first attempt at scaling the mountain of Uncle Karl’s Grundrisse; these asides concern what Marx referred to as “the means of communication”, but which we would probably now refer to as (yes, you guessed it) infrastructure.

In lieu of actually getting hold of and reading Harvey’s The Condition of Postmodernity: An Enquiry in the Origins of Cultural Change (because hahahah, OMG, I have waaaaaay too many things to do and read for me to consider adding another one to the queue at this point), I dug out this retrospective piece by Natalie Melas at the Post45 collective, which sets the book alongside the (much better known) Fredric Jameson works on the postmodern. These excerpts, however, are more concerned with Harvey’s distinct notion of time-space compression, because it’s of greater and more immediate relevance to my work. Clip the first:

The signal contribution of Harvey’s argument is the analysis of “time-space compression” in which capitalism, as he puts it, “annihilates space through time.” The way global space shrinks in our experience and understanding relative to the time it takes to traverse it is one basic index of the time-space compression, but the term also points to “processes that so revolutionize the objective qualities of space and time that we are forced to alter, sometimes in quite radical ways, how we represent the world to ourselves.”5 Harvey specifies several “rounds” of time-space compression in the history of capitalism. These time-space compressions are prompted by alterations in “the objective qualities of space and time,” but their ramifications are an alteration not only in our experience but also in our representation of the world. Representation is the key vector in Harvey’s analysis that allows for the intersection of visual art, film, architecture, urban planning and other modalities of postmodern culture.

No points to VCTB regulars for guessing that I’m about to make the point that the medium of time-space compression is infrastructure; this is a media-ecological argument, in that it extends the notion of “media” from the lay understanding (i.e. newspapers, radio, TV, internet) into the material distributive systems through/across which those representational media are (re)produced. The equivalence goes the other way, as well, in that we can think about, say, water treatment and distribution systems as a sort of system of representation and communication… and that also means that the use of the term “abstraction” in the civil engineering discourse around infrastructure suddenly has a very interesting (i.e. alarming) doubled meaning.

Again, I need to read the actual book to be sure, but I strongly suspect that there’s support in Harvey’s thinking for my own argument that the metasystem (a.k.a. concrete infrastructure, pun very much intended) is always already the metamedium, which is to say it is the screen upon which the Debordian Spectacle is projected. Clip the second:

For Harvey, as for Jameson, the postmodern time-space compression gave on to a sense of an enclosed present, a total present, severed from history at least in its dialectical form. Our own moment, under the pressure of ecological crisis, seems instead preoccupied by a futurity bound to the consciousness of a geological time scale, a scale that utterly dwarfs historical epochality.13 The extinction of homo sapiens, along with other animal and plant life, is persistently knowable but unrepresentable, no less so than the aesthetic problematic of globality in postmodernism that Jameson describes and names the “postmodern sublime” at the end of the eponymous essay in Postmodernism, or The Logic of Late Capitalism. Is there a distinct rupture between contemporary discourses on environmental catastrophe and the thematics of postmodernism, or is there a hidden continuity, or both?

Meanwhile, the questions of (un)representability that Melas is poking at here seem to me to be the same questions that Latour has been wrestling with in the last few decades, albeit from a very different direction… and that loops me back to the Higgins book, in a way, because it quite rightly defends postmodern critique against the accusation that it is somehow to blame for the soi disant “post-truth” phenomenon, but nonetheless (perhaps unavoidably?) sustains the Foucauldean reification of ideas like “power” and “neoliberalism”, which Latour would argue are black boxes which must be opened and explored as the perpetually renegotiated networks of relations that they are. Indeed, Higgins’s final chapter, on a lesser-known Chip Delany trilogy, kind of makes the same point… but it does so with(in) the paradigm of postmodern critique, and so carries through what Latour (and, increasingly, I) would describe as the (well-intended) limitations thereof.

So, yeah—some useful connections here. We’ll see how time allows for me to write more about the Higgins, because it’s an interesting book in its own right, as well as a demonstration of the limits of certain critical apparatuses.

an epistemic heat death of universal solipsism

Interesting (old?) idea from Venkatesh Rao:

Divergentism is both an idea you can believe or disbelieve, and a basis for an ideological doctrine (hence the –ism) that you can subscribe to or reject. You could capture both aspects with this simple statement: Humans diverge at all levels of thought-space, from the sub-individual to species, and this is a good thing. The doctrine part is the last clause.

If you are a divergentist, you hold that the social-cognitive universe is expanding towards an epistemic heat death of universal solipsism, and you are at peace with this thought. You explain contemporary social phenomena in light of this thought. For example, political polarization is just an anxious resistance to divergence forces. Subculturalization and atomization are a natural consequence of it.

I think I’m a cautious believer in divergentism, but not a doctrinal subscriber to it.

There’s a sense of something-in-the-airness I’m getting at the moment, too, in that the above idea seems of a piece with the retromania/cultural fracking thing I rambled about the other day, and that they’re both linked by the ideas of the Ccru as summed up by Robin Mackay on the Buddies Without Organs podcast earlier this week—which is to say, by the utility in cybernetics as a useful, nay necessary model for thinking about cultural production (and for doing thinking as cultural production), and the particular value in the cybernetic road less travelled, namely positive feedback (rather than the hegemonic negative feedback models of the RANDy cyberfuture people, which always did and still do rely on the useful but dangerously limited hypothetical positing of the closed system, in a universe where there is no such thing as a closed system).

Of course, that sense of something-in-the-airness may just be the result of my brain clearing after a hectic couple of months, and of my getting back to some sort of sporadic rhythm of thinking about stuff beyond what’s necessary for the day-job… but whatever. For what is synchronicity if it is not a positive feedback, deliberately sought out and encouraged? Maybe it’s time to stand a bit closer to the amplifier, so to speak.

cultural fracking / “indie sleaze”

Nothing is more eyerollingly contemptible than someone else’s nostalgia, for the very obvious reason that—d’uh—there were better things to be nostalgic about when I was young.

The above, for the avoidance of doubt, is meant to be read as deeply ironic, but there’s also an element of truth to it. This has become very apparent over the last week or so, with the tidal surge of the ‘indie sleaze’ concept gurgling up through the cultural sewer system.

I’m going to assume you already know what I’m talking about, here, because I’m a writer and theorist with a blog and not a news site; if you’re not aware of the ‘indie sleaze’ memeplex, then the article at tQ I’m about to cite heavily will probably explain it sufficiently for you to get what I’m on about. But I hazard that if you’re not yet aware of it, you’ll likely not care much for having been made aware of it, at least in the specifics; you might find the abstract points I make below to be of interest, but then again, you might not. Caveat emptor, innit.)

(ETA: have just noticed that the URL for that tQ piece includes the phrase “Mandela effect“, but the article doesn’t mention it by name at all; I wonder what, if anything, got left on the cutting-room floor?)

So, yes—Daniel Dylan Wray comes in early in his piece with an observation that’s older than either of us:

Nostalgia and the 20-year cycle are common in music. It’s no big surprise that a bunch of people pushing 40 start getting a bit warm and mushy remembering when they were 23 and full of pills and Red Stripe while listening to Soulwax. It’s human nature. It’s nice to remember good times with old friends.

(It’s a mark of my being that little bit older still than Wray that the mention of Soulwax makes me feel less warm-and-mushy and more decline-and-fall… because I recall Soulwax as a vaguely interesting band who threw it all away by spearheading that immensely tedious yet undeniably popular mash-ups phenomenon. And so it goes.)

But anyway, to put it in a capsule, ‘indie sleaze’ is a label suddenly being used to gather and package curated images and vibes (but, crucially, very little actual music) associated with the Noughties indie boom. According to Wray,

… there appears to be little else going on other than some people wallowing in the past while trying to convince themselves that it, or maybe even them, possesses some sort of contemporary relevance. As though if one keeps saying that something is happening enough times then it will eventually become true. It feels like the signs of a creeping millennial midlife crisis. Some of the stuff being posted under the indie sleaze hashtag already indicates a seemingly inevitable generational shift into ‘it was better back in my day’ territory. The next generation of Weller haircut mods or acid house dads are now seemingly upon us.

Well, quite. “Same as it ever was,” to quote a band from the generation before mine, that said generation quoted at me relentlessly; this is not a new thing. Wray consults an academic specialist in nostalgia to get some insight, or at least some side-sight, on this thing.

“There’s two ways of looking at it,” Routledge tells me. “The cynical way is that these are totally distorted memories. The more positive side is that as humans it’s really important to have a story arc, a narrative. It is kind of like filmmaking and the reality of the past is like the raw footage. Well, that doesn’t make for a good movie. What makes a good movie is when you go in there and you find the pieces that you think tell the story you want to tell. So I don’t think it’s total fiction, that footage is there right? But where it becomes more creative, and more imaginative, is how we make editing decisions.”

My bold, there, to highlight what is probably a fairly obvious point, in order that I can deliberately overstate it in a way I’ve done before: all narrative is curation. Yes, literally all narrative, making no distinction by media, or even between fiction and non-fiction: telling a story is about reducing the huge volume of stuff and events in the world (imagined or real) to a coherent and curated selection that thereby imposes meaning on a a volume too vast for our meaning-making capacity to handle.

It is thus very much in that spirit that I will note that Bill Gibson concretised Routledge’s metaphor in the maguffin of the very pertinently-titled Pattern Recognition… which, just to compound the synchronicity, is a cultural phenomenon roughly contemporaneous with the raw material from which the ‘indie sleaze’ aesthetic is being lashed together. Which brings us neatly to:

The whole thing just feels like such a weird, tenuous, desperate grasp for something that isn’t there. A bit of a front. One that people are using to mask the reality that the music they like, or make, has been deeply out of fashion for some time and are jumping on an opportunity to convince themselves its back.

What’s really odd about it is just how immediately people have swallowed it up and digested it without question. “It’s fascinating,” says Routledge of it all. “I wonder if it becomes like a self fulfilling prophecy? Like the buzz just makes it come back? Like a viral marketing campaign.”

The claim of the upper paragraph there is, I think, a bit of generational sour grapes on Wray’s part—and I say that without meaning to judge him harshly for it, because my identifying it as such is totally a function of remembering a number of times when I’ve felt exactly the same about some cultural thing-of-the-moment. Nonetheless, I think that assumptions of bad faith of this type are best not left unquestioned… and Routledge’s response starts getting to the meat of what I think this is really about. He continues:

Why has it taken such hold? (At the time of writing fresh articles are still appearing daily from major titles.) And why now? “I’ve looked at this in the context of music, film and fashion,” says Routledge. “And it’s around this age, late 30s and early 40s, that this generation gets the reins of power over culture. What I mean by that is: who’s calling the shots at the film studio, who is the editor of the magazine? That’s when these people are in charge. Obviously they’re not in charge of the bottom up organic cultural movement but they’re in charge of the discussion of it. So I think that’s part of the cycle – who gets to decide what gets the green light.”

Routledge is half-right here, I would argue, in that yes, the age cohort he’s describing is dominating the discourse on the topic, but not because they’re “in charge” of anything. Rather, it’s because the algorithmic systems have surfaced a connection between that cohort’s perfectly natural nostalgia, the “raw footage” of the era in question, and—crucially—an audience which might be formed into a viable (if momentary) market. A market for what, though—new music? Fashion? Hot-take articles? All of these, and none of them; a market for attention, first and foremost. This is an emergent phenomenon in which no one—not even those who have programmed the algorithms that underpin (what remains of) the web and social media—is truly in control of. Those algos identify and amplify tiny seismic quivers of attention, just like an amplifier amplifies the tiny signal from a guitar pick-up… and that guitar pick-up then catches a bit of the amplified signal and sends it back round again, and then, well, you all know where this metaphor goes (particularly if you’ve ever had the misfortune to hear me play guitar).

The question of the temporality—the twenty-year cycle—is interesting, but that predates the internet by a long distance, so I think we can ascribe that to the nostalgia circuit that Routledge is talking about, something that existed in earlier, less gain-y iterations of the cultural amplification system. (Sorry, but I’m doubling down on the guitar feedback metaphor, partly because it’s apropos to the particularities of the story, but mostly because it’s the illustration of runaway positive feedback that’s most easily identifiable to the largest number of people without having to get into Systems Theory 101.) What’s unusual here, if anything is unusual, is the rapidity of the response (so, the gain of the amplifier) and the shallowness of the source material (so, the low level of the signal, which correlates to the sensitivity of the pick-up).

Wray gets this, or almost gets it, I think, but then pivots away from the deeper implications:

Obviously this whole thing is ridiculous and seems to be little more than an exercise in SEO. Which is fine as fashion and trends are supposed to be ridiculous from time-to-time, and the era of so-called indie sleaze certainly was. Whatever happens in the fashion world with indie sleaze (and I’m sure it will continue to be a thing while the right people are claiming it is a thing) remains separate to the discussion in question here because you can’t consciously replicate a youth culture movement, even if you want to. They are, in essence, born from the very pure and potent power of naivety.

Yes, it is exactly an exercise in SEO, but the point is that there’s no real causal chain, no one who can really be said to have started the exercise—not even the person who started the ‘indie sleaze’ aesthetic curation process. There are dozens, maybe even hundreds of such aesthetics being curated all over the place right at this very moment; it’s only when the attentional pick-up passes over one particular string, vibrating away in the seething quantum void of culture, that the sound gets heard, and the sympathetic resonances start up.

Now, sure, the movement of the pick-up—or rather pick-ups, because there are many agents doing this sort of work, some for money, some for pleasure, some for a mix of both—is directed to some extent. And also, sure, the question of whether the resulting note is sweet enough (or fuzzy enough, or whatever) to appeal to enough attentional agents that the pick-up is held in place for long enough for the note to ring out, that’s a function of cohort nostalgia, as Routledge notes above… but I think it may also be a function of the neophilia of another, younger cohort. Because while there’s some money to be made out of selling people’s youth back to them all over again, there’s not enough to really sustain that note over time; for that sustain, you need to use the nostalgia circuit as the pre-amp, and then shove that boosted signal through the power-amp that can drive the speaker cabinet. And the power-amp is, and always has been (since the 1950s, at a guess, though possibly before) the hunger among young people for some alternative to what’s already on offer in the culture surrounding them. That’s what the Noughties indie boom was at the time; it’s what the various things-called-indie around the end of the 80s and the start of the 90s were (which is to say, the sounds of the 60s rehashed for a generation who had only heard the banal and bowdlerised stuff successfully recuperated by capital in the intervening years).

It is, in short, what friend-of-the-show Jay Springett calls cultural fracking… and much like its namesake, it is driven by a deep imperative of extraction in a system which, for all its uncritical worship of the notion of “innovation”, struggles to actually do anything new at all. All it can do is amplify a signal it stumbles upon. But because the gain of the resulting amplification has become so high, and the sensitivity of the pick-ups so refined, and the number of people trying to make a buck by waving the pick-up around in hope of finding the Next Big Thing has become so vast, there’s hardly any space for a new and genuinely novel signal to develop. So it’s new bottles for old wine, over and over again.

(This, incidentally, is one part of my enduring beef with the notion of “innovation niches” in transition studies; the observation that novelty emerges from niches is almost tautological in its obviousness, but the assumption that novelty might therefore be “fostered” by seeking out niches and “managing” them is business ontology at its very finest, and also serves to ensure that no niche is left alone long enough for any substantive novelty to develop.)

Ugh… I felt sure when I started this post I had a more substantive point to make, but it seems my argument is basically “OMG u guiz this is capitalism plus infrastructure!!!1”. Which is at least consistent, I guess? So regular readers (those who haven’t long since clicked away elsewhere) may like to think of this as a case-study, which will perhaps be referred to (and made better use of) at some later juncture.

(Alternatively, you may prefer to put it down to procrastinatory displacement activity while working from home on a day of astonishingly foul weather. These two interpretations are not mutually exclusive.)

ecosystems are not factories / the tyranny of scale

Just a quick one today (in case yesterday’s table-thumpin’ epic gave you the fear), and it’s a call-back supplementary to an earlier squib about the fetish for “scaling up” in, well, everything.

The case in hand here is food production, and perhaps it’s the case where the argument is made most easily.

Scalability as a value derives from an industrial way of thinking: that the best solutions are those that can be replicated and implemented widely, and that uniformity breeds efficiency and productivity. This may work in a factory, but ecosystems are not factories. Ecosystem productivity derives not from uniformity but from diversity, flexibility and change. Accordingly, these, not scalability, are the traits that are key to success for the most exciting food systems innovations.

I think most folk with even the slightest idea about the concept of ecosystem understand this point—or perhaps I just hope so? Anyway, the logic continues thusly:

Rather than asking whether a practice “scales” — whether it works if adopted everywhere — we ought to instead ask whether a practice works in and for specific people and places, and whether it can align with or enhance existing culturally valued practices and systems in other places. “Is this approach in harmony with the people and other living things in this region?” “Does it work with or against the goals and needs here?” And so on.

Obvious, right? OK, so now extend that logic to the vast majority of other human practices, and fold in the extent to which those practices are already massively shaped by the environment in which they are performed, as well as by a long historical succession of meanings and values associated with the telos of said practice (which is to say, the end to which the practice is the means). This was part of my point yesterday, the main reason you can’t just hope to change the way people do things by telling them a “better” way, or selling them a better gadget: both the gadgets enrolled in the doing of a thing, and the better-or-worseness of the particularity of the performance as seen by the performer, are massively contingent and heterogeneous, even within relatively small geographical areas.

Now, this wasn’t always the case: there was a relative local homogeneity of practices in pre-industrial peoples, and that homogeneity was shaped by exactly the necessity of its reliance upon the particularities of the local ecosystem. There’s no going back to that, even if it were something to aspire to (and I’m not sure it would be, even leaving aside the alarming adjacency of ecofascism to that sort of thinking), because the fetish for scale has long since tangled most of us up in ecosystems far from where we ourselves actually are in space. This is the magic of metasystemic infrastructure, the way in which it has released (some of) us from the boundness-to-one-place that came with the sedentary grain-state… but it is also the reason that infrastructure is a collective prosthesis in whose absence we would probably die quite quickly. Turns out you can’t build a space-suit using only what’s available in your back yard.

So there’s no way to turn back the clock to a time before scaling… but equally, the scaling-up dogma (which is another ideological plank of the economic memeplex discussed yesterday) is a dead end; as Loring suggests above, it implicitly treats the world as a factory, and monopoly (and monoculture) as victory condition.

As I often say, the way out is through. Surfacing, critiquing and stamping out dogmas such as “does it scale?” and “unleashing latent desire” has to be a part of that through-going, I think… and on the basis of some field-work visits made in the last few weeks, plus Loring’s comments above, I find myself wondering whether—as hippy-dippy as it admittedly sounds, in a culture where scale and capital-S Science are dominant deities of the pantheon—close contact with agriculture and cultivation might be the easiest way to make these admittedly abstract ideas tangible and immediate to people.

(not) giving it the progressive legitimacy it would lack otherwise

One of the joys of having unplugged from the birdsite again is being able to largely ignore the whole crypto/Web3/NFT circus, at least in its most immediate expression. Of course, various people are writing about it more slowly, and it’s probably a function of my pre-existing biases that have ensured the vast majority of what I’ve read tends to cash out as academic or practitioner-accented versions of NOPE NOPE NOPE. Without any shame for the hipsterness of the statement, I’ll note that I was skeptical of this stuff when it was still new (and I have the receipts to prove it).

But when people I respect contradict or challenge me, well, I do my best to listen. Here’s yer man Matt Colquhoun:

The world is changing, both on- and offline, but our imaginations are slow to catch up. Without an insistence upon it proceeding otherwise, Web3 will be (and is being) used to replicate the pre-existing cultural hegemony of Funko-Populist finance bros.

Let’s just stop to do a full on gatsby.gif at that lovely coining in the last line, there. Chapeau, sir.

Now, Matt seems to me to be saying that he’s worried that by NOPEing out of this space entirely, we’re giving up the chance to seize the potentially good bits of this assemblage. On that point, I agree. But my instinct—and I will gladly concede that it is very much an instinct, one nurtured by the intense disillusionment of the Nougties blogging goldrush (of which I was arguably one of the people who did moderately well, albeit in a very drawn-out and roundabout sort of way), but also from, ah, let’s just say an earlier stage of life during which I was exposed to an awful lot of hucksterism and hustle of an even more naked sort—my instinct, leavened with a bit of research (though not so much as an advocate would insist was a precondition of having an opinion), says to me that there’s nothing there fight for, or if there is, the triumph of the very worst potentials thereof—already very much in the ascendant—is effectively baked in due to its unfolding within the inducement structure of capitalism more broadly.

None other than Evgeny Morozov sees it as being worse still: by looking for the bright side of this mess, we end up giving it a veneer of progressive respectability:

How does one criticize a flawed, unrealistic, and extremely partial narrative that is, nonetheless, being rapidly turned into reality? This is not a problem that one can solve by adopting a more pragmatic, solutions-oriented attitude that many of the proponents of Web3 demand from their critics. The goal here cannot just be to find a more progressive use for DAOs or tokens or NFTs. I’m sure they exist – and many more of them can be found in due time. But what is the point of such search expeditions, when, in the end, such efforts are only likely to help in the left-washing of the Web3 brand, giving it the progressive legitimacy it would lack otherwise?

As he puts it, “there is no ‘there’ there”; the self-referentiality of the whole edifice means anything you do to fight it just gets hoovered up by the rhetorical cyclone.

But back to Matt:

But there are a number of alternative visions out there — the latest issue of Spike Art magazine contains advocates for a bunch of them, who are both optimistic and pessimism about the current state of things. The worry I have, and that many others have, is that it may already be too late. What depresses me isn’t so much how NFTs are being used by the internet’s most naïve denizens, but that their idiocy atrophies the political imagination of the rest of us.

In that sense, the responsibility for our unabating digital dystopia lies as much with the mindless naysayers as it does mindless enthusiasts. The narcosis of an old digital radicalism is developing necrosis. Something has got to give, but we need to realize that this needn’t be the communities we hold dear in themselves. There is space for them to well and truly thrive, if we demand and carve out that space, just as we did when the internet first became available to us.

Now, I have a lot of time for Matt’s negation-of-the-negation argument, to the point that I have once phrasing of it blu-tacked to the wall above my desk. Maybe it’s just a function of me being An Old nowadays, but I think the reason for the necrosis of digital radicalism is the acceleration of the capture process with each new iteration of the digital frontier… plus, perhaps, a dawning realisation that perpetually turning to the next frontier is a foundational plank of the thing we’re trying to fight against.

To reiterate a point from a few days back, this ain’t me going all primitivist and suggesting “we can do without technology”; far from it. But I think I do perhaps feel that getting away from this attitude where the technological is often or always the site—a non-spatial site, which is perhaps another root of the problem—of the next potential victory. I try not to cite ol’ Grandpa Karl too often, as I don’t think I’ve read enough of him, but I’m pretty sure that his basic argument was that while technology might serve to enable a more socialist world, it could only do so once the political economy in which it operated had been reconfigured. Seize the means of production first, right? Then reorganise the uses it’s put to. So wading in to the Web3 shitstorm to me feels like trying to fine-tune (post-)Fordism for socialist ends: totally well-intended, but ultimately of use only to the factory owners.

Matt doesn’t want “the communities we hold dear” to be sacrificed to to the necessity of change, and yeah, I hear that. I guess I’m just not so convinced as I once was—and those who’ve known me long enough will know that I was super convinced, a bona fide Web2.0 evangelist—that a change of medium to the next new thing is going to keep those communities vital. To be honest, I think making better, slower use of the superseded media might be a better place to start. The Arab Spring didn’t fail because social media wasn’t sufficiently advanced or decentralised; it failed because the systems of power it was arraigned against were too deeply entrenched, and those media were in turn embedded into those structures from the get-go.

Eh, I dunno—like I say, I’m An Old now, and increasingly identifying with the (historical, rather than vernacular) label of Luddite. Sure, the Web3 powerloom might revolutionise many of the things I do for a living… but even if the nice guys work out a way to do that, is it going to compete with the monkey-jpeg people and Andreessen-Horowitz? Not bloody likely, mate. I only have so much fight left in me, and I’m not wasting it in a space where the signal-to-noise ratio (not to mention the VC bankroll) is that high.

Still, good luck to anyone who wants to brave it. Because I agree with Matt’s parting line, as well:

It is our complacency, not Web3, that will be the death of us.

And yeah, maybe I’m just NOPEing out of the definitional struggle of our times… but I can’t see what work there is to be done there, let alone how to start doing it. Perhaps I just don’t have enough of a stake in it? Perhaps the (veeeerrrry relative) security of early career academia has seduced me away from the vanguard? Quite possible.

But I very clearly remember believing that having my own website and socnet handles would lift me out of the neoliberal precariat, and I remember seeing that—even as it did so for a very lucky few of us—it made things even worse for those who missed the bus. My sense that Web3 &c. will be an even crueller and faster clusterfuck goldrush is, as I say above, predominantly instinctual—which is perhaps to say imaginative.

I can’t imagine a metaverse in which things are better for most people. But I can imagine a world in which we’ve decided that chasing our emancipation down the fibre-optic backbones and into the data-centers will look, in hindsight, like a very weird thing people once believed, like the indulgences that came off the early printing presses. Progress is the greatest lie ever told, and Web3 looks like the very shiniest empty box it has ever been put in.

Good luck in there, but count me out.