Loving the Algorithm

How automation has hijacked human emotion.

Recently, while on holiday in Italy, I discovered something puzzling about myself.

The hotel in which we were staying had an immaculate front lawn, perfectly mown, startlingly green. In a corner of the lawn, tucked away unobtrusively next to a manicured hedge, was a little plastic shed.

The shed housed a robotic mower. One of those low-to-the-ground, slow-moving mowers that move intently around the lawn, trimming it quietly and calmly.

All day this little mechanical creature rolled back and forth across the grass, uncomplainingly. I watched as it struggled to correct itself when it ran up against an object like a table leg or a chair. I admired its determination as it nosed its way into tricky corners to ensure every blade of grass was shorn.

I watched as day turned to dusk, and still the little robot mower kept on at its task. Retiring only once it was dark, it finally put itself to bed in its little shed to recharge its batteries.

Look at the adjectives I’ve used here: determined, calmly, uncomplainingly. Look at the diminutives I’ve liberally applied: little plastic shed, little mechanical creature, little robot mower. And look at the human characteristics I’ve bestowed on it: its struggle, nosing its way into corners, moving around intently, putting itself to bed, and even needing to recharge its batteries - which, while technically true, is a phrase widely used to denote a very human form of tiredness.

The puzzling thing I realised about myself as I watched the robot mower, was that I found myself caring very much about its wellbeing.

I felt bad that it just mowed all day long without a break - it felt exploitative. It seemed poignant to me that it had to change direction (with some difficulty) when it met an object in its way. I was relieved when it stopped for the night and put itself back into its charging shed because it had worked so hard all day.

Now, I’m no sap, and while I know that I can project human qualities onto animals, I was very surprised to find myself empathising with a lawn mower.

This type of projection is what’s known in literature as the Pathetic Fallacy. Coined by John Ruskin in 1856, it describes the very human desire to attribute sentimental qualities to something not human - it’s particularly common in poetry and bad romance novels. The brooding sky, the cruel sea… and here at the hotel in Florence, the uncomplaining robot mower.

Anthropomorphising is not unusual. We do it to find commonalities in order that we can better understand things that are not of our species. It’s not a bad thing - it shows us that we have the ability to empathise. But animals are one thing, it’s quite another to be doing it with bits of motorised plastic.

This seeking to connect to things that aren’t organic has increased in recent years. This week, The New York Times analysed a conversation between ‘an otherwise perfectly sane man [who] became convinced he was a real-life superhero’ after a 21-day chat marathon with ChatGPT.

The story detailed how the A.I. generated conversation convinced the man that he had unlocked a powerful mathematical equation, and through a mixture of flattery, encouragement, and persuasion, the A.I. induced him to try and promote his ‘breakthrough’ idea to the wider public.

He eventually broke free of the delusion, but many other people are not so lucky. The same NYT article reported that a growing number of people who are interacting with A.I chatbots are finding themselves being institutionalised, divorced, or even dying.

ChatGPT, which has over 300 million users and counting, is fast becoming a tool not just for writing and fact finding, but a tool for companionship. There are whole communities and forums on the internet dedicated to discussing A.I. soulmates. What was once the domain of science fiction is now science fact.

Those of us fortunate enough to have families and friends will no doubt scoff at the idea of such things, but the reality is that more and more people are turning to computer programmes for company, while shunning actual human connection.

I suppose it was inevitable, really. I’m old enough to remember the thrill of opening up a clunky desktop computer and finding the Encarta programme, which was basically a whole encyclopedia on a screen. How amazing to be able to rid your bookshelves of those huge, space-swallowing volumes. It seemed so futuristic then - now it just seems quaint.

I remember first coming across YouTube when it had only a few hundred video clips. I remember when texting was new and clumsy. I remember when Facebook actually sought to connect its users rather than just use them to connect to huge profits.

And all of it seemed miraculous and so full of potential.

All this connection was, in the beginning, a positive thing. Now it appears that it was illusory, as true connection - human connection - is in danger of becoming extinct, not from any cataclysmic event but from our own apathy and alienation.

I guess the disconnection began back in the eighties when the Walkman first made its appearance. Suddenly, we could tune out the noise of the world and listen to music instead of conversing with the person who sat next to us on the bus.

As phones grew smarter and computers grew more indispensable, we gradually began to lose our ability with analog communication skills - such as small talk, public speaking, or simply talking on the phone. We also began to lose the ability to parry contradiction, because not every other human agrees with your point of view and learning how to respond and craft an argument when your ideas are rebuffed is crucial for a healthy social community.

I noticed younger generations’ growing phobia with actual verbal communication first-hand when I asked an assistant at my workplace to cancel a reservation for lunch at a restaurant.

She looked at me with horror as she realised she was going to have to speak to a real person on the phone with words.

“I don’t know that I can do that,” she said. “I have phone phobia.”

Not quite. Given she was glued to her phone every minute of the day, it was probably more correct to say she had real-life phobia.

But here’s where the generational divide comes in. I say real life as if it means here, in the physical, with actual talking, and touching, and seeing. Real life with senses.

Real life, however, for many younger people does not necessarily mean any of those things. Their real life can be lived completely on-line, in one room, without ever having to actually speak with or listen to, or touch another person .

Social intercourse, let alone sexual intercourse, is very much an opt-in rather than a default position these days. And you know, I get it - dealing with other people can be exhausting.

But dealing with other people is what helps make us human.

‘Only connect,’ wrote E.M Forster in ‘Howard’s End’. While Forster was cautioning against reliance on technology way back in 1909, not even he could have imagined a world in which we are all supposedly hyperconnected and yet find ourselves more isolated than ever before.

In our spoiled post-industrial lives, we no longer need to leave our homes to engage with the world. We can read online, buy online, watch movies online, chat online, get fit online. There’s basically nothing we can’t simulate online. Except for real connection.

When I worked some years ago at a university, I came across a woman who spent her days creating a virtual world in which she was happier than in the ‘real’ world around her. Every lunchtime, she would jump online instead of engaging with her workmates. I was curious about this world in which she was always so desperate to return to, and so I asked her to show me around it one afternoon.

Normally, this woman was monosyllabic and taciturn, but when I asked to see her online life, she immediately became animated. She first showed me her avatar, which was as far removed from her actual physical being as it was possible to imagine. Then she showed me through the house she’d built, and decorated - complete with photo albums of her avatar and her avatar’s avatar boyfriend. I was dumbfounded. I couldn’t believe anyone would spend this much time and money - because virtual makeovers cost real bucks - in a fantasy world.

But what was fantasy to me, was reality to her. While I couldn’t understand what satisfaction she could possibly get from make-believe, I realised that for her, real life was the unsatisfactory model, and online was where she could truly be the person she felt best represented her.

That was over a decade ago. Now, Mark Zuckerberg is pimping out virtual friends as a remedy to the loneliness epidemic that we are currently facing, an epidemic that he and his fellow tech titans have engineered without conscience.

Connection is vital. It’s how we learn about others and ourselves. It’s how we form empathy and understanding. Connecting with others gives us the ability to form thoughts and arguments and see other perspectives. It’s crucial to evolution.

Humans are not like robots, we are hardwired to seek connection - real connections with real emotions attached - and we are not built to withstand isolation, no matter how comfortable our self-imposed cells may be.

And the thing about humans is that because we are physical beings, if we stop using parts of our bodies, they begin to atrophy. Stop engaging in conversation and we soon forget how to communicate. Stop going to school or work or parties and we soon forget how to read people’s body language, or engage in polite small talk. We don’t learn how to be compassionate, or forgiving, or even how to change our minds. Simply put, we don’t evolve; we stagnate.

And suddenly we find other humans to be undesirable companions, and not only that, we find them threatening, because we don’t understand them. Our ChatGPT buddies, and virtual doctors, and A.I. girlfriends, on the other hand, never make us think, never argue with us, always tell us how unique and special we are, and never make demands on us. You can see how enticing it is, right?

I am just as guilty as anyone of spending way too much time on my phone. It never makes me feel good, and when I shut it off and go out into the world, I am always amazed at just how oblivious we have become to our surroundings. It never fails to remind me that the connection technology promised is just an illusion, a cheap facsimile for experience.

But as we find ourselves emoting over images that are manufactured, and A.I. companions that are nothing more than code, we find ourselves less able to feel for other people, and much more able to feel for solar-powered lawn mowers.

It’s useless to try and change the world as it now is - as useless as standing at the shoreline trying to beat back the tide - but individually we can reject this brave new world of isolation and desperation and do as E.M Forster suggests, and not only ‘connect’, but live in fragments no longer.