Ingrid, this is 1407 words, more than 40% over the word limit. I can't comment on the draft until you have brought it within the rules.

In Adam McKay? ’s bluntly allegorical Don’t Look Up, a band of underdog astronomers attempt to compel America’s uber-powerful to prevent an incoming comet from obliterating earth. The film ends cataclysmically for virtually everyone except the elite few—some pandering politicians and tech billionaires who Irish exit in a rocketship (SpaceX? ?), too myopically self interested for planet earth to have ever had a real shot at survival.

Don’t Look Up explores the tug-of-war between authenticity and dehumanization—and data collection is eroding the foothold of the former. Namely, big-tech mogul Peter Isherwell (a fictional “frankensteining” of Elon Musk and Mark Zuckerberg and the like), intimidates Leo DiCaprio? ’s uncomfortably sweaty antihero by reducing him to a data point:

“Did you know that [my company] has over 40 million data points on you and every decision you’ve made since 1994, Doctor…I know what you are. I know who you are. My algorithms have determined eight fundamental consumer profile types. You are a Lifestyle Idealist. You think you are motivated by beliefs…but you just run towards pleasure and away from pain.”

The nature of Isherwell’s threat is not surprising in light of recent “milestones”: Cambridge Analytica played deus ex machina in the 2016 presidential elections; a leaked study on Instagram sparked public outrage not for confirming that the app triggers self-loathing—we already knew that—but something much more sinister: that the trigger itself is a fine-tuned algorithm; and we all remember the buzz around Target when it surprised teenage girls (and their parents) with coupons for diapers and baby cribs.

It is in this context that surveillance capitalism becomes particularly relevant. In an interview with Shoshana Zuboff, the author of The Age of Surveillance Capitalism, Zuboff defines surveillance capitalism as a new economic system that “unilaterally claims private human experience as a source of raw material.” And as the tech behemoth evolves (grossly, intrusively, like COVID-19 or the alien from Prometheus), we are left to wonder whether any authentic and human experience is left sacred to just ourselves.

Yet we stubbornly convince ourselves that we can game the system. And, to a certain extent, we still can: I can silently scoff at my ex’s recent relationship status under Facebook’s radar (so long as I do not spend too much time hovering over the page); I can create an Instagram account that strictly follows watercolor art content and vegan recipes (I must be vigilant not to click on anything even remotely off-topic). Within the confines of those blindspots we high-five each other (careful not to stretch our arms too far) and tell ourselves that we’ve gamed the system—that we’re in control.

However, to believe the previous narrative is to assume that we are wholly separate from the digital space: there are no wire coils latticed across our brains or surveillance cameras programmed into our contact lenses. But while we are not cyborgs (yet), our relationship with social technology is downright sticky, and our digital identities are just as relevant as we are.

If you’re unconvinced, just take a look at China’s social credit system in the works, which uses a digital network to rank its citizens largely based on their social media activity. According to the system, those who rank well are rewarded with luxury apartment discounts and boosted dating profiles, while those who rank poorly are ostracized with, among all things, lagging internet. Metaphorically speaking, blindspots can’t truly exist when we have microchips tucked under our ankles.

Even so, those blindspots are about to become jurassic, its remains swept away by the “metaverse” movement. Facebook, which has opportunistically renamed itself as “Meta”, defines the metaverse as “an embodied internet where you’re in the experience, not just looking at it.” In his video keynote, Zuckerberg announces Meta’s grand plan to create a 3D world that is sophisticated enough to rival (and in some ways outdo) the world that we live in now. Zuckerberg wears a minimalistic Silicon Valley uniform (black shirt, unscuffed sneakers) and carries himself like a new-age prophet; the high-rise backdrop overlooking both a Balinese beachside and the French Alps seems all too eerily reminiscent of fictional tech products introduced in Black Mirror.

So how exactly will the metaverse work? Thanks to Meta’s acquisition of Oculus in 2014 (courtesy of Meta’s “copy, acquire and kill” mantra), the first generation of the metaverse will be accessed through virtual reality headsets and hand sensors. Meta’s website features a picture of a woman in her living room with two curvy hand remotes and (what seems to be) a giant Wii strapped across her face—she looks like she could be surfing in the Maldives or fighting in a street brawl.

The concept sounds cool, and a lot of industry titans are jumping on the bandwagon: JPMorgan recently became the first bank to set up a metaverse office, and Nike’s been designing digital versions of its shoes and apparel. And pockets of our society have already transitioned into this digital frontier, particularly in gaming: when asked at the dinner table about his day, my brother answered casually, “not much, just pillaged a couple of villages with my friends.”

But the price of such an immersive experience is the nature of immersion itself: our physical and digital identities become a single being. In the metaverse, we are wired in and fully traceable, and we lose our rights over even our faintest thoughts: namely, Oculus’ Project Cambria is developing technology to track eye focus and facial movement. And sometimes we volunteer our vulnerabilities: according to an early metaverse user, it is not uncommon to find avatars crying openly in this brave, new digital world.

In many ways, the metaverse is framed like the new frontier—an infinite clean slate where anyone (with an Oculus headset) can build their own universe. In his keynote, Zuckerberg introduces the concept of “Horizon,” Meta’s social platform, which enables users to design their own spaces, from vacation homes to corner offices to fantasy games.

The promise of a great, virtual equalizer is intuitively attractive. In an interview with Marc Andreessen, an early Facebook investor and board member since 2008, Andreessen outlines the concept of Reality Privilege:

“A small percent of people live in a real-world environment that is rich, even overflowing, with glorious substance, beautiful settings, plentiful stimulation, and many fascinating people to talk to, and to work with, and to date…[e]veryone else, the vast majority of humanity, lacks Reality Privilege — their online world is, or will be, immeasurably richer and more fulfilling than most of the physical and social environment around them in the quote-unquote real world.”

Personally, I get the appeal of Reality Privilege: when I was an introverted sixth grader with oily skin and ill-fitted clothes, I spent an unhealthy amount of time playing Sims, where my avatar was a poreless social butterfly with a cute boyfriend and a dream home—playing pretend can be slippery when you dislike yourself. And so off we go, living as wildly as our imaginations (and VR software) allow.

Amidst all of this hype we forget that we are ultimately just occupants in Zuckerberg’s virtual tenancy. And as much as Zuckerberg’s inner child craves praise, Meta needs to turn a profit.

As mentioned before, commodifying human behavior is old news, but what’s so scary about the metaverse is the extent to which Zuckerberg is trying to mimic authenticity: in the metaverse, we can gaze romantically into the eyes of each other’s avatars, test the firmness of an apple at a virtual Whole Foods, and watch our tears saturate the ground as we weep in our Oculus headsets. We might even will ourselves into believing that all of it is truly authentic.

And when we do convince ourselves, even for a fleeting instant, our lived experience becomes completely commodified—in that moment, we are no more than the raw data we provide. We are wholly reduced to Isherwell’s eight consumer profiles.

But look on the bright side: the full throttle of the metaverse is still far away, five to ten years according to Mark. And we can all learn from the infamous steak dinner scene in The Matrix, when Cypher betrays his comrades for a privileged life in a pretend world:

“I know this steak doesn’t exist. I know that when I put it in my mouth, the Matrix is telling my brain that it is juicy and delicious. [But] [a]fter nine years, you know what I realize?”

Eats the steak, drinks the kool-aid.

“Ignorance is bliss.”

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