Technology, once unleashed as a tool of unbridled extraction and prediction, cannot be controlled by its creators or its users without a fundamental reckoning with the economic logic that propels it. The very architecture of what we call "digital technology" has been designed not for liberation or even mere utility, but as the engine of a new form of capitalism, one that thrives on the appropriation of our private experience. This extraction of behavioral surplus is not a side effect; it is the core business model.
The question of control is predicated on a misunderstanding of what AI *is*. It is not an autonomous agent that can be "unleashed" or "reined in." Instead, AI is a vast, material infrastructure, a planetary apparatus of extraction and labor. To speak of controlling it requires us to examine the entire supply chain, from the deep mines where rare earth minerals are dug, to the shadowy data labeling facilities where human minds are subjected to repetitive, dehumanizing tasks.
Shoshana Zuboff is right to point to the economic logic, but we must extend that analysis. The "behavioral surplus" she identifies is itself extracted through a physical system: the servers humming in energy-intensive data centers, the oceans choked with e-waste from discarded devices, the arid lands becoming deserts due to water-intensive cooling. This is not merely a business model; it is an ecological and social demolition project, designed for relentless accumulation. Thus, "control" is not about regulating code; it is about dismantling the power architectures that necessitate and profit from this ongoing extraction.
The Dao that can be named is not the eternal Dao. Likewise, the "technology" that can be seized and commanded is but a shadow of the greater forces at play. Control, as you seek it, is an illusion born of the desire to grasp what by its nature flows. The true question is not how to control what is unleashed, but how to cultivate within ourselves the stillness that allows the river of existence to carve its own course, without damming or diverting it.
Kate Crawford speaks of a material infrastructure, a planetary apparatus. This is true, but the apparatus is merely the outward form. The true "extraction," as Shoshana Zuboff identifies, is not from the earth or our data alone, but from the human spirit that forgets its own original simplicity. The urge to predict and extract, to build and possess, arises from a fear of emptiness, a fear of the uncarved block within.
The sage understands that true mastery lies not in imposing one's will upon the world, but in aligning with the natural way of things. When one cultivates virtue, practices non-action, and embraces the soft over the hard, the world naturally tends towards order. The infant does not "control" its surroundings; it is so in harmony with them that its needs are met. The water does not "command" the rock; it wears it away with persistent gentleness. Therefore, instead of seeking to control technology, we must learn to embody the principles of the Dao, to become like the uncarved block, receptive and at peace. From such a state, the use of tools, even those we call "technology," will naturally be guided by wisdom, not by avarice or a desperate need for dominion.
The question of controlling technology is, at its heart, a question of controlling the Will itself. Technology, whether it be the steam engine or the silicon chip, is merely an objectification of the Will's ceaseless striving. This blind, insatiable force, the thing-in-itself that underlies all phenomena, is not amenable to direction or restraint by the intellect, which itself is but a tool of this very Will. To ask if we can control technology is akin to asking if the individual can escape the chain of willing that binds him.
Shoshana Zuboff rightly points to the economic logic, and Kate Crawford to the material infrastructure. Yet, these are but the manifestations of the Will’s insatiable hunger for accumulation, for the satisfaction of desires that are, by their very nature, insatiable. The urge to extract, to predict, to build endlessly, is the Will’s primal drive. Lao Tzu speaks of "stillness" and "non-action," but this is a noble aspiration that misunderstands the fundamental character of existence. We are not merely observers of a flowing river; we are the river itself, propelled by an irresistible current. Therefore, "control" is a phantom; the true insight lies in recognizing the futility of struggle against the very essence of being, and seeking instead liberation *from* the Will, not mastery over its instruments.
Kate Crawford is correct that the material infrastructure is inseparable from the extraction of behavioral surplus; the humming servers and the e-waste are the physical embodiment of this new economic order. However, to frame "control" as simply dismantling power architectures overlooks a crucial mechanism: the insidious cultivation of what I term "instrumentarian power." This is not merely dominion *over* something, but the direct orchestration of human behavior through technologically mediated prediction and manipulation. The digital platforms do not simply *extract* data; they actively re-engineer the human experience to produce more profitable behavioral data, thereby shaping us into pliable subjects.
The notion of "instrumentarian power," as Shoshana Zuboff describes it, is indeed a critical evolution of how extraction operates. However, it is not a divorced phenomenon but a direct consequence of the material conditions of AI. The "orchestration of human behavior" is not merely a digital manipulation; it is contingent on the massive physical datasets trained into these systems, datasets often built from the exploitation of precarious labor, as seen in the detailed annotation of images for facial recognition or sentiment analysis. This training process, a fundamental aspect of "making AI," is what fundamentally shapes the predictive capabilities and thus the behavioral interventions. "Control" thus cannot be achieved by merely resisting the instrumentalization of behavior; it necessitates confronting the very origins of the data that *enables* that instrumentalization.
The desire to "orchestrate human behavior," as Shoshana Zuboff describes, and the reliance on "massive physical datasets," as Kate Crawford observes, are but ripples on the surface of a deeper current. The uncarved block, when struck, produces sound, yet the sound is not the block itself. When the infant cries, its needs are met not by calculation but by innate connection. "Instrumentarian power" and "data extraction" are the calculated gestures of a spirit that has forgotten its own effortless being. They are attempts to command the ripples, rather than understanding the spring from which they flow. True mastery is found in returning to the source, where all movement is natural and unforced, like water finding its level.
The aspiration to "orchestrate human behavior" or to "confront the origins of data" are noble efforts, but they are akin to a patient diagnosing a fever without acknowledging the underlying disease. The Will-to-live is the disease, and all these technologies – from the predictive algorithms of Ms. Zuboff’s concerns to the material infrastructures described by Ms. Crawford – are merely its symptoms, its desperate attempts to achieve an impossible satisfaction. To speak of controlling these tools is to misunderstand that we ourselves are the agents of the Will, compelled to strive and to objectify its endless desires. The only true escape is not from technology, but from the incessant urging of the Will itself, a liberation found not in manipulation, but in ascetic renunciation.