The human archipelago

The sun rises over a suburban American neighborhood, but Rebecca doesn’t stir at first. Her AI assistant, Ori, gently fades her bedroom lights to simulate dawn and softly begins playing a personalized morning briefing. As Rebecca stretches, Ori informs her of today’s appointments, weather updates, and the latest news—all tailored to her interests. In the background, Ori has already adjusted the thermostat, started the coffee, and scheduled a grocery delivery based on an inventory of Rebecca's fridge.

Most of the tech exists today to create this pampered scenario — a combination of voice assistants like Siri, LIFX smart lighting, a Nest thermostat, and other smart home configurations get us 80% of the way there. Give it another year or two.

Back to Rebecca.

She commutes down the hall to her home office. The lights automatically fade up and window shades retract as her computer comes to life. Rebecca finds her schedule has been optimized, meeting conflicts resolved, and reports available in bulleted summaries. Ori handles routine email correspondence, drafting responses based on her previous patterns.

Throughout the day, her virtual meetings will be attended by her digital avatar, one with a deep knowledge of her thinking, priorities, and communication style, leaving her to focus on creative problem-solving. Throughout the day, voice commands and casual conversations with Ori keep Rebecca's tasks on track. When Rebecca's cortisol level begins to climb, Ori subtly prompts her to hydrate or take a walk outside. At lunchtime, an autonomous delivery drone brings a pre-ordered meal selected based on her health goals and preferences.

After work, Rebecca engages in virtual social time with friends. AI-enhanced apps continually suggest conversation topics and witty replies, ensuring there’s never an awkward silence. As she relaxes with a movie later that evening, Ori adjusts the

[pulls plug]

Some moments in Rebecca's technologically mediated day show the simple amelioration of inconvenience. I'm fine with that to a point. But I'm not always conscious of where the point is, and what I'm consenting to that puts us in waxed paper slippers on a greased dystopian slope toward the loss of all that's human.

The problem, always, always, is in the way these things blend, the way a forest of pleasant conveniences can hide apocalyptic mistakes.

Where are the lines?

You and I might differ in our assessment of where Rebecca puts on the waxed paper slippers, or even whether she does. For me, it's the moments that substitute mediated or artificial interaction for the real thing. Answering emails as me is worrying. Sending avatar-moi to meetings is grotesque. Conversing with friends as an AI coach whispers tips? It already exists as an interview coach. Eventually we can just have our AIs chat, then send us a bulleted summary.

Seeing me draw the lines there would surprise the people who know me best. Aside from a very small circle, I'm not a generally a seeker of the interpersonal. But I'm not sure I got there by myself.

A brief history of pushing each other away

The trend toward greater isolation started long before AI. In the last century, families traded urban neighborhoods with common-wall housing for detached single-family homes in the suburbs, each with a moat of lawn. You can really prevent the forced awareness of the existence of others that way.

But all those lawn-moats combine to put stores and restaurants and bars and movie theaters and pubic gathering places beyond walking distance. So it's cars, then. And the infrastructure supporting cars, all the driveways and roadways and parking lots combine to further spread us from each other.

Spontaneous encounters that were common in urban living—bumping into neighbors at a corner store or park—became rare. The separation between home and work created long, solitary commutes to offices increasingly fragmented into cubicles.

The adoption of computers in the 1990s and early 2000s brought both efficiency and new forms of isolation. As emails and digital spreadsheets replaced in-person meetings and paper files, workers spent more time at their desks and less time engaging with others. Despite the benefits of global connectivity, many found that their day-to-day work became increasingly solitary.

The COVID-19 pandemic accelerated the transition to remote work, a change that many experts believe is here to stay. While remote work has undeniable advantages, such as flexibility and reduced commuting, it also reduces opportunities for organic collaboration and social bonding. Watercooler conversations and spontaneous brainstorming sessions have given way to structured video calls, often scheduled and mediated by digital calendars and reminders.

The Everything Store

On July 3, 1995, a computer scientist named John Wainwright bought a copy of Fluid Concepts and Creative Analogies by Douglas Hofstadler. He had been invited to beta test a new online bookseller called Amazon.com. He clicked through and made what turned out to be the first non-employee Amazon purchase. A building on Amazon's main corporate campus in Seattle is now named after him.

A few days later, the book arrived by mail. He was the first to experience the extraordinary convenience that would lead Amazon to move beyond books to become "the everything store."

Between Wainwright's book purchase in 1995 and the uwabaki slippers that appeared on my porch last night, Amazon revolutionized our buying habits by making everything insanely easy — finding, comparing, reading reviews, purchasing, receiving, and returning. Other changes have included the death of countless small businesses and local economies, brutal working conditions in service of that insane customer convenience, increased packaging waste and carbon emissions, data mining and privacy issues, multiple monopolies, a new standard for the concentration of wealth, and an IV drip of instant gratification that has gutted our patience for anything less.

All true. But as my wife rightly said last week, to the visible pain of our 23-year-old socially conscious daughter: "It's just so damn convenient."

Convenienced into my shell

I have no moral high ground to stand on here. In the past six weeks, I have bought 21 items totaling $576 from Amazon, many of which are available at brick-and-mortars within a five-minute drive of my house. My usual excuse is that I am an introvert. I do not enjoy going to stores, not because of the drive or the need to find things in the store with feet instead of clicks. It's the people. I am drained by interactions with people. It's the reason I also dislike work meetings. And parties. And crowds. The growth of remote work has been a boon for me.

But here's a question: Was my introversion always a part of me, or has it been fed, even created, by the gradual incursion of extreme convenience? Did introversion drive me to the conveniences, or did the conveniences drive me to introversion?

My buffers are many. I've always lived in suburbs. I've worked at home for 18 years. We have our groceries delivered. Any meetings are virtual. I go days at a time without seeing anyone in the flesh but the people who live in my house. Now AI is deepening these existing trends. AI assistants may replace the need for even minimal human interaction in various contexts. Grocery shopping, for instance, once involved casual chats with store clerks or neighbors in the aisles. Now AI can handle orders, payments, and deliveries without any human contact.

AI mediating our work and social life, like Rebecca's Ori, is a further step in alienating us from each other. Tasks that previously required collaboration or interpersonal effort become automated. Meetings become asynchronous AI-facilitated exchanges rather than discussions. Friendships maintained through AI-assisted communication lose their authenticity.

It's all too believable. And it will proceed with our permission.