Yves here. In the following discussion, Tom Valovic highlights how the promise of digital freedom has often not only failed to materialize but has also introduced negative consequences. One phenomenon we examined during the foreclosure crisis was the idea that “code is law.” This principle, which aimed at streamlining mortgage origination and servicing, led to abuses like MERS that frequently bypassed established legal frameworks. Unfortunately, judges too often favored mortgage transfer violations because allowing an unauthorized party to foreclose would mean granting the borrower a “free house.” However, that was not what borrowers wanted; they sought mortgage modifications akin to those regularly given when banks held the mortgages they originated. Securitization agreements incentivized servicers to foreclose—an expedited process—while mortgage modifications, requiring a tailored approach, were often neglected.
By the way, tokens are fantastic. One of my banks employs them for small business accounts.
This article begins by delving into security protocols, which I find particularly frustrating. Firstly, many systems require you to receive SMS codes, rendering a relationship with that vendor impossible for me since I cannot receive SMS overseas (most major U.S. carriers will cancel your account if you use it abroad for over six months). Additionally, I dislike having my cell phone play a critical role in identity verification. Secondly, I harbor a deep-seated disdain for biometrics. There’s a significant flaw: if someone steals your identity, you can’t simply replace your fingers or face. Moreover, biometric systems often fail. My major bank forces you into online banking, claiming it’s possible from a laptop, yet branch staff have consistently struggled to make it work. Even worse, they require selfies. Due to my poor vision, I cannot take one without my glasses. A staffer spent 50 minutes trying to get a usable photo with both my phone and iPad. Others have confirmed that selfies are nearly unfeasible at that bank, necessitating in-branch transfers for services that should theoretically be online.
Poor facial recognition implementation seems widespread. The government plans to introduce an integrated immigration application called THIM. A friend, a professional technologist, struggled to get it to scan his passport, let alone the facial recognition feature. He had to go to Immigration for assistance.
By Tom Valovic, a writer, editor, futurist, and the author of Digital Mythologies (Rutgers University Press). His essays explore the emerging social and cultural dynamics influenced by the internet. He has served as a consultant for the former Congressional Office of Technology Assessment and was editor-in-chief of Telecommunications magazine, where he was among the first journalists to report on the public internet in the early 90s. Tom’s insights on technology’s effect on society appear in publications such as the Boston Globe, Columbia University’s Media Studies Journal, and many others. He can be contacted at jazzbird@outlook.com. Originally published at Common Dreams
Amid the usual chaos of online media saturation, I recently came across an article in The Boston Globe that validated my ongoing frustration with the pitfalls of technocracy. The article focused on a commonly used security measure: two-factor authentication, which many of us find exasperating:
How hard can it be to grab your phone, retrieve a six-digit code, and type it in—seemingly the simplest task in the world—to avoid, oh, having your bank account emptied, your identity stolen, or yourself rendered a kind of stateless person, adrift without access to your own life? Don’t get Thomas Lee, a physician at Brigham and Women’s Hospital, started. “Two-factor authentication is sapping my will to live,” he said. Or litigator Kara Thorvaldsen, who described it as “the bane of my existence.” Every time my husband tries to log into NESN, it somehow requires me to unlock something with Face ID, etc., ad nauseam.” Or playwright and actor Kim Smith, who stated, “Sometimes the only reason I hear from my daughter is when she needs the code that’s been sent to my phone.” As thefts rise, residents feel increasingly besieged. As two-factor—or, worse, multifactor—authentication becomes widespread, it’s evident that somewhere, a spouse is shouting from another room, “Did you receive my code?” An employee struggles to access his work platform after leaving his phone at the gym, while an adult child tries to assist her cognitively declining parents with bills, hindered by a lack of that elusive code.
It’s a distressing scenario that resonates with many. This reflection brought to mind T.S. Eliot’s poem “The Love Song of Alfred J. Prufrock.” In one notable line, a disillusioned older man confides, “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.” He bemoans a life reduced to trivial routines—small, inconsequential actions that constrict his existence further.
This line frequently returns to my thoughts as I contemplate our culture’s gradual drift toward a technocratic dystopia—a digital panopticon where we navigate life, with every action, word, or genetic trace documented and, increasingly troubling, monitored. In a curious twist, this mundane digital existence starkly contrasts with the notion of “machines of loving grace,” a sentiment shared long ago by poet Richard Brautigan, now often quoted by tech enthusiasts who appear to dominate everything. I also found a similar lament from Alex Ross writing in The New Yorker:
You wake up and brace yourself for the barrage of toxic gibberish that constitutes the modern public sphere. Your email is overrun with spam, scams, and smut. There are voicemails from no one about nothing. Publications, from the Times on down, use clickbait headlines that patronize us. AI systems mimic conversations with an arrogant 10-year-old boy who knows far less than he thinks. When pressed, the chatbots admit they cannot “naturally understand human morality, dignity, culture, or meaning.” It all leads to a continuous discursive tinnitus—a buzz of random, fake, stupid, sinister chatter that nobody wants and nobody can stop.
Living our collective cultural experience by “measuring our life in coffee spoons” resonates deeply. It feels as though we are stuck in a purgatory of numerical monotony, akin to the four disenchanted corporate drones in the popular TV series Severance. We mindlessly click away, entranced by our screens, inundated with obligatory cuteness from cartoonish emojis and robotic figures that someone believes will brighten our day.
Red Lights and Info-bureaucracies
As a thought exercise, I began contemplating the amount of time I waste on digital trivialities, from cumbersome verification processes to constantly entering numbers and codes, often only to hit dead ends. We find ourselves in constant vigilance against hacking—anxiety over whether our life savings remain secure. Visits to customer service hell have become frequent, and they promise to worsen as more clueless companies integrate AI chatbots into their services. Why is it that many successful enterprises fail to grasp that customer service is central to their business? We spend hours on hold, refusing to engage with an oblivious chatbot that can’t handle complex queries. (Didn’t AI promise to be “smart”? Or do companies prefer “dumb AI” when it suits them?)
I refer to these frustrating experiences as info-bureaucracies. Much like conventional bureaucracies, they excel at wasting our time and conditioning us to accept absurdities as the norm, reminiscent of the characters in Terry Gilliam’s prophetic film Brazil. Here we are squandering our precious moments on mindless digital chores instead of partaking in activities that enrich our lives.
As we navigate toward an “AI-first” world, the prospect of managing these info-bureaucracies ourselves grows dim. Unfortunately, this situation is likely to deteriorate before it improves. Organizations enamored with technology are increasingly deploying AI agents for customer service, yielding disastrous results. Engaging with a human agent often requires mastering various workarounds for every helpline. We can easily find ourselves spending hours on hold, subjected to someone else’s uninspired musical selections.
Years ago, research determined the average time Americans lose waiting for red lights. Studies suggest that people in the U.S. spend approximately 300 hours annually driving, with a significant portion lost at traffic lights. One organization estimated such time could amount to four months over a lifetime spent driving seven days a week for 50 years.
This is a common inconvenience we accept as part of modern living. Yet, I can’t help but ponder how much of our valuable time is now consumed by maintaining our minuscule digital lives. How much scarce quality time is trivialized by tasks navigating through mazes designed to enhance corporate profits, relieve companies from hiring more customer service representatives, and, inevitably, squander our time?
Frequently, the AI agents we encounter appear woefully inadequate. From my extensive experience in the tech field, I know companies possess the means to create significantly more user-friendly systems. This detachment from human agents is intentional, serving corporate interests. Many customers become so frustrated they abandon attempts to resolve issues, absorbing financial losses as a result. These systems are integral to normal daily life—banking, credit card transactions, paying taxes, and more. Once trapped within the tech maze, we often lack the ability to escape if the issue is serious enough.
Henry David Thoreau urged us to “simplify, simplify.” Yet, how can we achieve this as we become increasingly enveloped in a digital labyrinth? I believe we currently stand at a pivotal moment in history—a unique opportunity to influence our future and enhance our quality of life. However, this journey may involve challenging decisions. Many Americans intuitively sense this, and their resistance to AI data centers signifies a hopeful new direction.
Wendell Berry, another great American poet, captured this sentiment succinctly. In “Life is a Miracle: An Essay Against Modern Superstition,” Berry writes: “It is easy for me to imagine that the next great division of the world will be between people who wish to live as creatures and people who wish to live as machines.” This clearly articulates the fundamental existential choice we now confront: deciding what kind of world we desire and mustering all the agency needed to realize that vision.
