The Minefield

There is something undeniably disorienting about the way AI features in public and political discussions.

On some days, it is portrayed in utopian, almost messianic terms — as the essential technological innovation that will at once turbo-charge productivity and discover the cure to cancer, that will solve climate change and place the vast stores of human knowledge at the fingertips of every human being. Such are the future benefits that every dollar spent, every resource used, will have been worth it. From this vantage, artificial general intelligence (AGI) is the end, the ‘telos’, the ultimate goal, of humanity’s millennia-long relationship with technology. We will have invented our own saviour.

On other days, AI is described as representing a different kind of “end” — an existential threat to human life, a technological creation that, like Frankenstein’s monster, will inevitably lay waste to its creator. The fear is straightforward enough: should humanity invent an entity whose capabilities surpass our own and whose modes of “reasoning” are unconstrained by moral norms or sentiments — call it “superintelligence” — what assurances would we have that that entity would continue to subordinate its own goals to humankind’s benefit? After all, do we know what it will “what”, or whether the existence of human beings would finally pose an impediment to its pursuits?

Ever since powerful generative AI tools were made available to the public not even three years ago, chatbots have displayed troubling and hard-to-predict tendencies. They have deceived and manipulated human users, hallucinated information, spread disinformation and engaged in a range of decidedly misanthropic “behaviours”. Given the unpredictability of these more modest algorithms — which do not even approximate the much-vaunted capabilities of AGI — who’s to say how a superintelligence might behave?

It’s hardly surprising, then, that the chorus of doomsayers has grown increasingly insistent over the last six months. In April, a group of AI researchers released a hypothetical scenario (called “AI 2027”) which anticipates a geopolitical “arms race” in pursuit of AGI and the emergence of a powerful AI agent that operates largely outside of human control by the end of 2027. In the same vein, later this month two pioneering researchers in the field of AI — Eliezer Yudkowsy and Nate Soares — are releasing their book, If Anyone Builds It, Everyone Dies: The Case Against Superintelligent AI.

For all this, there is a disconcerting irony that shouldn’t be overlooked. Warnings about the existential risk posed by AI have accompanied every stage of its development — and those warnings have been articulated by the leaders in the field of AI research themselves.

This suggests that warnings of an extinction event due to the advent of AGI are, perversely, being used both to spruik the godlike potential of these companies’ product and to justify the need for gargantuan amounts of money and resources to ensure “we” get there before “our enemies” do. Which is to say, existential risk is serving to underwrite a cult of AI inevitabalism, thus legitimating the heedless pursuit of AGI itself.

Could we say, perhaps, that the very prospect of some extinction event, of some future where humanity is subservient to superintelligent overlords, is acting as a kind of decoy, a distraction from the very real ways that human beings, communities and the natural world are being exploited in the service of the goal of being the first to create artificial general intelligence?

Guest: Karen Hao is the author of Empire of AI: Inside the Reckless Race for Total Domination.

In the middle of August, the Bendigo Writers Festival found itself at the centre of a firestorm after over fifty participants decided to withdraw — some claiming they were required to engage in a form of “self-censorship”, and others withdrawing in solidarity.

Reports have it that, two days before the festival was due to open, a “code of conduct” was sent to those taking part in the one of the four La Trobe Presents panels, “urging compliance with the principles espoused in [the university]’s Anti-Racism Plan, including the definitions of antisemitism and Islamophobia in the Plan”. The code also asked participants to practice “respectful engagement” and “[a]void language or topics that could be considered inflammatory, divisive, or disrespectful”.

For many of those due to take part in the writers’ festival, this code of conduct amounted to a demand for self-censorship over what they hold to be a “genocide” taking place in Gaza, and would prevent them from criticising the actions of the State of Israel, “Zionism” as an ideology and, by extension, “Zionists”.

This is just the latest of a series of controversies surrounding Australian writers’ festivals — some of which pre-date the massacre of Israeli civilians on 7 October 2023 and the onset of Israel’s devastating military incursion into Gaza, but which have now intensified and been rendered even more intractable by those events.

The conflict in Gaza has placed severe strain not only on the relationships between Australian citizens and communities, but also on our civic spaces and modes of communication: from protests on streets and demonstrations on university campuses, to social media posts and opinion pieces. Given that writers’ festivals intersect with each of these social spheres, it is unsurprising that they should prove so susceptible to the fault lines that run through multicultural democracies.

Leaving the wisdom or effectiveness of “codes of conduct” aside, it is worth considering whether there are constraints inherent to public debate in a democracy — which is to say, forms of self-limitation and fundamental commitments that ensure the cacophony of conflicting opinions does not descend into a zero-sum contest.

This week the federal government’s much-anticipated, and just as hyped, Economic Reform Roundtable has gotten underway. Central to the agenda is how to boost national productivity — which is, roughly speaking, a way of measuring the resources needed both to produce certain goods and to be able to afford to buy certain goods.

Put simply: greater efficiency leads to greater affordability and higher living standards. When the same amount of time, labour, investment and raw materials (‘inputs’) need to be expended in order to produce an even greater number of goods and services (‘outputs’), the inputs become more valuable even as the outputs become more affordable, leading to lower working hours and relatively higher standards of living.

By contrast, anything that impedes efficiency reduces productivity. Unsurprisingly, then, the need to reduce regulation emerged as a central theme in the lead-up to the productivity roundtable — whether that means reforming environmental laws that slow down the housing approval process or reducing constraints on the development and deployment of artificial intelligence.

However you cut it, AI is central to our current national conversation about productivity, efficiency and standards of living. And yet, even as AI represents a key to “unlocking productivity”, it also presents an imminent threat to employment itself. Modelling by Goldman Sachs found that, while AI could drive a 7 per cent boost in global GDP by 2030, this would likely come at the expense of 300 million full-time jobs worldwide.

In other words, AI is the latest, and most severe, expression of what John Maynard Keynes termed, a century ago in “Economic Possibilities for our Grandchildren” (1930), “technological unemployment” — by which he meant “unemployment due to our discovery of means of economising the use of labour outrunning the pace at which we can kind new uses of labour”. AI is technology that will produce entire areas of economic activity where human labour is either wholly redundant or greatly reduced, leading to a paradoxical situation where the economy is thriving and unemployment is high.

It’s perhaps not surprising that the possibility of a Universal Basic Income (UBI) is being mooted — including by the pioneers, purveyors and prophets of AI themselves — as a necessary remedy to the radical disruption of humanity’s relationship to work that is likely to transpire between now and 2030. What are the merits of such a proposal? Could this function as a radical alternative to our current system of conditional welfare, relying as it does on moralisation of work itself?

In March, an ABC Four Corners investigation detailed widespread instances of abuse, injury and neglect in childcare centres across the country. Just a few months later, in a climate of already heightened public awareness and media scrutiny, a series of deeply disturbing allegations came to light of child sex abuse in childcare centres in Victoria, New South Wales and Queensland.

The nature and extent of these instances of neglect and abuse, as well as the fact they involved the most vulnerable among us, suggested a systemic problem in Australia’s $20 billion childcare sector — something that tougher regulation or a national register of childcare workers or improved child safety training or even CCTV cameras will not fully address.

Put simply: the concern isn’t simply that a few ‘bad actors’ managed to slip through the regulatory cracks, but that something more thoroughgoing or pervasive is undermining the quality of the care and education being provided to young children. Interestingly, both the Education Minister, Jason Clare, and the Minister for Early Childhood Education, Jess Walsh, have implicated the profit motive itself as compromising the care of some providers. Walsh singled out “some repeat offenders who continue to put profit ahead of child safety”, and Clare has acknowledged that “overwhelmingly higher levels” of quality are found among the not-for-profit providers.

The federal government has announced a series of measures that, it hopes, will restore the trust of parents and the public in Australia’s childcare system — two-thirds of which is comprised of for-profit companies that have benefitted greatly from the subsidies provided to parents by the government. One of these measures is the ability to strip unsafe early education and care providers of their eligibility for subsidised care.

But it is government subsidies themselves that have fuelled demand in the first place, precipitating a rapid influx of stock-market listed companies hoping to reap their own share of the windfall. It’s a familiar story that has played out since the late-1970s: rather than running vital utilities or social services themselves, government delegates the provision of vital goods and services to “the market” into which it intervenes through funding or regulation. Michael Maron has termed this the advent of the “regulatory state”.

But are there some social goods — which is to say, goods that are integral to the possibility of human flourishing — that should not be exposed to the perverse incentives afforded the market? As Andrew Hudson, CEO of the Centre for Policy Development, has pointed out: “For too long, early childhood education has operated as a private market — leaving governments with limited tools to manage quality, access, or safety across the system. That’s what needs to change.”

Unless there is an overriding commitment to the wellbeing and flourishing of the children on the part of the organisation — as the animating principle or ‘telos’ of the organisation itself — what reason is there not to cut corners, to limit staff pay, to reduce overhead, to maximise efficiency, to do the bare minimum in order to approach compliance?

When the wellbeing of children is made subordinate to the goal of profit, it is the children themselves who are worse off.

You can read Luara Ferracioli and Stephanie Collins reflect on whether early childhood care and education are compatible with the profit motive on ABC Religion & Ethics.

At the end of July, there was a strange juxtaposition of events that seemed almost designed to highlight the fault-lines which run through the political, legal, economic and ethical responses to climate change.

On 23 July, the International Court of Justice handed down a non-binding advisory opinion that climate change constitutes an “urgent and existential threat”, that nations have an obligation to prevent climate change, and that the “failure of a state to take appropriate action to protect the climate system … may constitute an internationally wrongful act”.

Just days later, two former leaders of the National Party — Barnaby Joyce and Michael McCormack — used the first parliamentary sitting week to prosecute their plan to see Australia abandon its commitment to reach its net zero emissions target by 2050. Their claim is that consumers, particularly those in the regions, will be made to bear the cost for honouring a commitment that means precious little when compared to the world’s major polluters. Net zero is thus a masochistic policy that amounts to little more than “virtue signalling” on the part of those who will not have to wear the consequences.

Others have argued, though not quite so stridently, that “net zero” has achieved a kind of talismanic status — a morally pleasing target that expresses a certain moral seriousness and cannot help but hurl opprobrium at those who raise questions as to how realistically it can be reached and who will have to bear the brunt of costs. And climate scepticism aside, Joyce and McCormack have at least brought to the fore the tension between appearance and reality which has motivated a sizeable number of companies to leave Australia’s carbon credit market altogether over concerns for its efficacy and integrity.

There have long been concerns that “net zero” is more like an accounting tool (hence the language of “offsets” and “credit markets”) than a substantive measure to both reduce carbon emissions and remove carbon from the atmosphere on an enormous scale — for it is only such coordinated, collective action that can hope to mitigate peak global temperatures and slow warming trends. Which is to say, it is only such action that can rise to the call to “responsibility” envisioned by the International Court of Justice.

What, then, would it mean for Australia to honour its commitment to “net zero”, in substance and not just symbolically? What are the mechanisms, beyond the transition to renewable sources of energy and the existence of a well-functioning carbon market, that should be countenanced?

You can read an analysis by Garrett Cullity and Christian Barry of the criticisms directed at “net zero” on ABC Religion & Ethics.

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Upcoming event:

Thursday, 21 August 2025

Still Turning Heads at 250: Jane Austen’s Enduring Charm

ABC Radio National’s The Bookshelf and The Minefield join forces with a literary scholar and the State Library of New South Wales.

Jane Austen: charming? Sure, but also radical, political, sharp, witty, entertaining and — by the time she wrote her last three books — a professional writer. So what did this mean, in the context of her life and work? And how do we understand the way she approached stories of friendship, ambition, money, love, power and equality? Morality, making do, making fun? A special event presented by ABC Radio National and the State Library of New South Wales, to make sense of all this and more. With Kate Evans and Cassie McCullagh from The Bookshelf, Scott Stephens from The Minefield, and literary academic Sophie Gee.

Where? Library Auditorium & Glasshouse

When? Thursday, 21 August 2025

What time? 6:00pm - 7:00pm

Admission: FREE, but bookings required

NOTE: Entry via the Mitchell Library

This event is being recorded for later broadcast.

You can register on to join us on Eventbrite.

On 24 July, French President Emmanuel Macron announced his intention to recognise a Palestinian state at the UN General Assembly in September, as part of France’s “historical commitment to a just and durable peace in the Middle East”. Just five days later, UK Prime Minister Keir announced that the UK, too, will recognise a Palestinian state in September:

“unless the Israeli government takes substantive steps to end the appalling situation in Gaza and commits to a long term sustainable peace, including through allowing the UN to restart without delay the supply of humanitarian support to the people of Gaza to end starvation, agreeing to a ceasefire, and making clear there will be no annexations in the West Bank.”

These announcements come at a pivotal moment. The humanitarian crisis in Gaza is worsening by the day, with the UNRWA Commissioner-General, Philippe Lazzarini, reporting that one in five children are malnourished and more than 100 people have died from starvation. Meanwhile, negotiations between Israel and Hamas that would see hostages returned and a durable ceasefire reached have broken down and there is little prospect of them resuming.

It is important to note that, whereas in the past the prospect of recognition of a Palestinian state has been used as a way of getting representatives of the Palestinian Authority to meet certain conditions, here the threat recognition is being used to pressure Israel into abandoning its own intransigence.

Even among those who are committed to a two-state solution, however, there remains some doubt as to whether recognition would materially change anything for Palestinians, at least in the short term. So what would be the point of bringing recognition forward in the peace process?

There are few things more peculiar to a person than their preferences. Why it is they enjoy one genre of music over another, or a particular artist within that genre but not others. Why they derive specific pleasure from a certain type of fiction (romantasy, say, or Scandinavian procedurals) whereas others (like Agatha Christie’s Poirot crime novels or dystopian sci-fi) leave them cold.

And then there’s that whole undergrowth of what we might call “guilty pleasures”: low-brow books or formulaic television series or lowest-common-denominator movies that we secretly enjoy but would be mortified if anyone found out.

Which suggests, of course, that the network of preferences we call “taste” most often has a class dimension to it. Having specific tastes, and finding certain things distasteful, signals our belonging to the social stratum that has learned how to appreciate those cultural objects. It’s not that taste is altogether emptied of its subjective dimension — its ability to evoke authentic feeling, real enjoyment — but rather inner appreciation is in a kind of performative dialogue with the expectations of others.

And yet even within the realm of taste, there are subtle distinctions. Immanuel Kant one between “the taste of sense” (what is pleasant to me) and “the taste of reflection” (which may not be immediately enjoyable, and which may require effort or patience or instruction before yielding its treasures). According to Kant, what is truly “beautiful” is only available to the taste of reflection — a form of enjoyment that we want to enjoy with others.

In our world of endless digital reproduction, we increasingly rely on recommendation algorithms to curate our encounters with culture — algorithms that work along the lines of, “If you liked that, you will probably like this …” Algorithms, in effect, attempt to make our preferences legible, which is to say, predictable, offering us more of the same in order to keep us interested and engaged.

In this way, algorithms can only work at the level of what Kant called the taste of sense — they can operate along the lines of “likes” or “dislikes”.

But algorithmic recommendations cannot read the subtleties of our preferences, they tend toward massification, and they rule out the possibilities of both aesthetic achievement — learning how to appreciate, even love, what we didn’t initially “like”.

In a justly famous 1910 essay titled “The Moral Equivalent of War”, the American philosopher William James rejected the “fatalistic view” that war is an inevitability between nations, and expressed his hope of “a future when acts of war shall be formally outlawed as between civilized peoples”.

For all this, however, James confessed that he did not believe “peace either ought to be or will be permanent on this globe, unless the states … preserve some of the old elements of army-discipline”. He feared that, in the absence of the cultivation of certain martial virtues — “intrepidity, contempt of softness, surrender of private interest, obedience to command” — a “peace-economy” would ultimately devolve into a “simple pleasure-economy”. Hence his appeal to discover what he would call a “moral equivalent of war”:

“If now — and this is my idea — there were, instead of military conscription, a conscription of the whole youthful population to form for a certain number of years a part of the army enlisted against Nature, the injustice would tend to be evened out, and numerous other goods to the commonwealth would remain blind as the luxurious classes now are blind, to man’s relations to the globe he lives on, and to the permanently sour and hard foundations of his higher life.”

What William James is calling for, of course, is a form of national service — a mass mobilisation of young men (and it is, unquestionably, men that James has in view), not in order to engage in warfighting, but for the sake of nation-building. The cultivation of manliness and military discipline that would result, James hoped, would then form a kind of “cement” upon which peaceful societies could be built.

It is a compelling vision, and resonates with calls in many quarters for the establishment of forms of compulsory national service and the restoration of rites of passage for young men — collective experiences meant to initiate them into adulthood, and prepare them for the responsibilities that come along with it. These calls are also arising at a time when the very concept of masculinity itself is shrugging off a degree of the shame or opprobrium it has accumulated (most often in the form of the adjective “toxic”), particularly under the aegis of the #MeToo movement.

Indeed, one of the more conspicuous dynamics at work during the 2024 US presidential campaign was the relentless association of “liberals” or “Democrats” with weakness, enfeeblement, effeminacy, hysterical emotionality … whereas Donald Trump and his ilk were powerful, rebellious, virile, stoic — in a word, masculine. It was hardly coincidental that Trump made so many appearances at UFC events and on macho podcasts. In its own way, the 2024 US presidential election was restaging the ancient contrast between Sparta and Athens, between Rome and Greece.

“Extreme fitness” content online, the almost religious significance of gyms and the iconography of the “swoll” male body does seem to point to a kind of rejection of the liberal “pleasure economy” in favour of the military virtues of “hardihood”, discipline, preparedness to struggle, “contempt of softness”.

And yet this performative masculinity ultimately lives and thrives online — and as such, is not only narcissistic but eschews the “surrender of private interest” and “obedience to command” that William James believed needed to be cultivated in order to ward off self-directed egotism.

If we accept that young men may be craving the restoration of a sense of honour, of pride even, to the concept of masculinity, can this be done without the performative egotism, without the contempt for “softness”, without the will to dominate, that seems so much part of online culture?

You can read Samuel Cornell’s article “Welcome to the age of fitness content — where men train for battle without ever experiencing war” on ABC Religion & Ethics.

Could a stand-up routine ever rise to the level of “art” — the kind of performance that rewards multiple viewings, whose humour grows and deepens, which contains subtleties waiting to be discovered? A sketch certainly can. Just think of Abbott and Costello’s “Who’s on First?” from 1944, or the trial of Ravelli in the Marx Brothers’ Duck Soup from 1933, or Peter Cook and Dudley Moore’s “One Leg Too Few” from 1964. With each new viewing, the comedic timing, the precision and cleverness of the puns, the exaggerated physicality, the sheer virtuosity of the writing cannot help but surprise and delight all over again.

But with most stand-up, the humour arises from a certain immediacy: the interaction between the material and the peculiarity of the times in which it is delivered, and between the comedian and the physical audience. The frisson that arises from that interaction, the shock or surprise the comedian is able to elicit, is hard to re-experience to the same degree.

It stands to reason, then, that if a stand-up act was to endure as a piece of comedic art, it would most likely be performed by a comedian who cut his teeth while working as a sketch writer for a show like Saturday Night Live.

Enter John Mulaney. There is something undeniably enduring, timeless even, about his Netflix special “Kid Gorgeous at Radio City”. It was recorded in 2017 — in the aftermath of Trump’s first election to the US presidency, when public bewilderment was still offset somewhat by the belief it wouldn’t last long — and won an Emmy for Outstanding Writing for a Variety Special in 2018.

Mulaney’s act exhibits a strange sort of genius, though. It is obviously a piece of writing. Indeed, he explicitly references the act of comedic writing throughout the routine.

Mulaney is also assiduously non-political — right up until the moment that he isn’t. It begins with a nostalgic nod: “I just like old-fashioned things. I was in Connecticut recently, doing white people stuff …” He makes reference to the oddity of coming across a gazebo that was “built by the town in 1863”: “Building a gazebo during the Civil War, that’d be like doing stand-up comedy now.”

And then he embarks on a metaphor for the Trump presidency that has been hailed by many as genius: “Here’s how I try to look at it, and this is just me, this guy being the president, it’s like there’s a horse loose in a hospital …”

The aesthetic connection between Donald Trump’s golden coiff and a horse’s mane is, of course, immediately pleasing. As is the invocation of something heedless thundering through a finely tuned environment. There’s the added benefit that Trump’s name is not mentioned once, and yet the entire simile works. The question is … why?

In a digital age, it’s all about “content”. The post or tweet or reel or video or pod is nothing without something in it that permits it to be shared, to circulate, to attract attention, to promote engagement. What matters is the fact of circulation, not the usefulness or accuracy or beauty of what is circulating.

In other words, “content” is generated not to last, but merely to attract attention for the time-being; it is designed to be transitory without regard for either epistemic or aesthetic value; it merely fills the void left by the creation of digital platforms; it exists primarily to circulate, which is to say, to go viral; it reduces everything to “fodder”, regardless of the human dimensions or tragedy or seriousness or spuriousness of the story. The perfect encapsulation of “content” is the meme.

The ethical and aesthetic problems this presents are not exactly new, but the scale and speed of the “content industry” — especially in a time of generative AI – invests them with a degree of urgency.