Disclosure: This post was written by Claude after a chat about time and duration. As a musician emeritus, I suggested the connexion between free time, metred time, and the quantising of ProTools. This discussion occurred as I was talking through a more serious piece on duration and time as ontic versus phenomenological essences. Not wanting to divert my efforts too far, I asked Claude to summarise our chat for this blog post. If you don’t like AI-authored content, this is your opportunity to exit. As for the rest, Abandon All Hope Ye Who Enter Here.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
Musicians have been complaining about quantisation for decades. You record a performance — human, breathing, alive — and then the software snaps every note to the nearest grid point. The timing is “correct.” The feel is gone. Something was there and now it isn’t.
The standard explanation is that quantisation removes “feel” or “groove” — which is true but vague. What it actually removes is everything that falls between the intervals. The micro-deviations. The fractional push ahead of the beat, the slight drag behind it, the breath between phrases that doesn’t land on any grid division. These aren’t imprecisions. They’re the performance. Quantisation doesn’t tidy up the music; it overwrites it with a metrically perfect substitute and calls the result an improvement.
This is not a blog post about music production.
This is a blog post about time — and about the fact that the ProTools complaint is a precise, intuitive articulation of a philosophical problem that has been mishandled for over a century.
Here’s the short version. Duration — the actual temporal fabric of things — is something like free time in music. Not metrically structured, not divided into equal intervals, not indifferent to direction. Just: what’s happening, happening. Time, as we ordinarily understand it — clock time, measured time, the physicist’s time — is what you get when you impose intervallic structure on duration. Bar lines. A tempo marking. A grid.
The grid is useful. Indispensable, even. But it’s representational. It organises what’s there; it doesn’t discover what’s there. We no more find intervals in duration than we find bar lines in birdsong.
Now here’s where physics gets into trouble.
The equations of motion are time-symmetric. Run them forwards or backwards, they work either way. Pop science takes this and says: therefore time could, in principle, go backwards. Time travel! Reversed entropy! Christopher Nolan!
But this is exactly like saying: the score reads the same in both directions, therefore the music could be played backwards and remain the same music. It couldn’t. The score is the grid. The music is not the grid. The formal symmetry of the notation tells you something about the representational scheme. It tells you nothing about the direction of the performance.
Bergson saw half of this a century ago. He insisted that lived time — durée — is irreducible to the physicist’s spatialised coordinates. He was right. But he made his own version of the musician’s error: he confused free time with no time at all. Playing without a click track isn’t escaping metric structure. It’s still playing notes in sequence. Bergson thought philosophical intuition could recover duration as it actually is — but the feel of playing freely is still the feel of playing. It’s closer to the truth than the metronome is, but it’s not the truth itself.
Einstein, meanwhile, gave us the most sophisticated metronome ever built and then we all agreed the metronome was the music.
And ProTools? ProTools is what happens when you take the grid seriously enough to enforce it absolutely. Quantise everything. Snap every event to the nearest interval. And then notice — as every musician who has ever hit that button notices — that something real has been lost. Not a feeling. Not a subjective impression. Something that was in the sound is no longer in the sound.
That loss is the point. The grid cannot fully capture what it organises. There is always a residue — and the residue isn’t a flaw in the grid or a limitation of the technology. It’s a structural feature of any intervallic imposition on something continuous. The grid does real work. But the work it does is not the same as the thing it works on.
Time doesn’t go backwards. It doesn’t go forwards either. “Going” is what the grid gives you. Duration doesn’t go anywhere. It’s what’s already there before the grid arrives.
The musicians have known this all along. They just didn’t know it was philosophy.
I am considering a new essay. That’s nothing new, but this was born from personal experience. Whilst reading Derek Parfit’s Reasons and Persons, I reached the chapters on moral arithmetic and imperceptible harms and effects, and it caught my attention. Not in the ‘Aha!’ way, but because I felt excluded given my own experience. My mind wandered off the reservation, but I wondered if my anecdote might be generalised. After a discussion with ChatGPT, Grok, DeepSeek, Gemini, and Claude, I concluded that it can. As is my practice for academic writing, I formulate a thesis and then an abstract at the start. Then comes the real work.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.NotebookLM Infographic on this topic.
Thesis Statement
Derek Parfit’s moral mathematics relies on an undefended identification between physiological relief and suffering-reduction. Liminal experience exposes the instability of that identification at its source: what is addressed may be a bodily deficit while the suffering that matters lies elsewhere, in suspended indeterminacy itself. Because the preservationist grammar Parfit inherits treats continued life as presumptively good and bodily modulation as prima facie benefit, it cannot distinguish cases in which relief tracks morally salient suffering from cases in which it merely maintains the middle.
Abstract
This essay argues that Derek Parfit’s discussions of ‘moral mathematics’ in Reasons and Persons are not neutral exercises in moral reasoning but operations conducted within a prior ontological grammar that predetermines what can count as a benefit, a harm, and a morally salient outcome. While Parfit explicitly addresses aggregation, commensurability, and imperceptible effects, his examples presuppose an unexamined identification: that physiological relief tracks suffering-reduction, and that such reduction, however marginal, constitutes benefit within a life treated as presumptively worth preserving. This preservationist orientation is not argued for but built into the structure of the cases themselves.
The essay develops this critique through Parfit’s micro-allocation cases, particularly those involving the distribution of small amounts of water to relieve thirst. These examples appear to demonstrate that imperceptible reductions in suffering can aggregate into morally significant goods. But the argument depends on a prior identification that may fail at the point of origin. Slaking thirst addresses a physiological deficit; it does not necessarily diminish the suffering that is morally salient to the subject. The essay does not claim that physiological modulation never tracks suffering-reduction – in many cases it plainly does – but that Parfit’s grammar lacks the resources to distinguish the cases in which it does from those in which it does not. It treats all bodily modulation as benefit by default, and this default is what the essay sets out to make visible.
Drawing on a first-person account of critical illness – respiratory failure, not pain; a demand not for comfort but for determination in either direction – the essay argues that such cases function not as marginal exceptions but as diagnostics that reveal the grammar operating on the wrong dimension of the moral object. The experience of wanting not relief but resolution (‘pick a side’) is both possible and intelligible, yet the framework has no notation for it. What the intervention addressed was a physiological deficit; what it left untouched was suspended indeterminacy – the condition of being maintained in the middle, neither recovering nor ending. That the trajectory eventually resolved toward survival cannot retroactively validate the intervention on the axis that mattered during the interval itself; to argue otherwise would be to confuse post hoc survivorship with moral justification.
The essay argues further that this limitation belongs not to Parfit alone but to a broader preservationist syntax operative across Western medical ethics, legal frameworks governing end-of-life care, and liberal moral philosophy more generally. Within this grammar, life functions as the unmarked container of value; sustaining it is treated as prior to any calculation about its contents; and cessation requires special licence. The cultural entrenchment of this grammar explains why Parfit’s examples feel intuitively compelling: they inherit commitments so deeply embedded that they register as neutral premises rather than contestable positions. The point is not that preservationism is indefensible but that it remains undefended – operative yet unexamined.
Finally, the essay notes that Singer’s universalisation of moral responsibility intensifies rather than resolves the underlying difficulty, since it collapses the bounded cases on which Parfit’s arithmetic depends. What emerges is not a disagreement about consequentialism but about the grammar through which suffering, benefit, and moral salience are first made legible – and about whether that grammar can survive contact with the full range of conditions it purports to govern.
The trolley problem’s borrowed ontology was already philosophically dubious in the seminar room. It becomes materially dangerous when compiled into autonomous systems, because assumptions that once guided thought experiments now govern conduct without appeal.
The first essay argued that the trolley problem is not a neutral moral test but a borrowed ontological grammar. It preformats the scene before reasoning begins, then invites us to mistake compliance with its terms for moral insight. All of that was bad enough when confined to philosophy seminars and undergraduate anguish.
It’s even worse now. Grammar has escaped the classroom. It’s been formalised, compiled, and deployed in systems that make decisions about who lives and who dies. And it wasn’t adopted because it is morally sound. It was adopted because it’s formally legible. Legibility rears its ugly head.
Autonomous systems don’t inherit trolley logic because no one’s examined it and found it adequate to the moral world. They inherit it because it’s the sort of ontology a machine can process: discretised, scalar, optimisable. Computational tractability is not a neutral filter. It selects for ontologies that can be ranked and calculated, and discards what can’t. Trolley grammar survives not on but on formatability. The philosophical problems didn’t get solved. They got encoded.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
The Grammar Gets Compiled
The autonomous vehicle ethics literature is, for the most part, the trolley problem with a chassis bolted on.
Public debate still poses the same stale questions in a shinier casing: one pedestrian or five, passenger or crowd, young or old, many or few. These dominate media headlines and a remarkable number of engineering white papers. They are also, without exception, trolley questions – which means they carry every presupposition the first essay indicted.
They assume:
persons are countable units
deaths are commensurable
the relevant moral act is optimisation over comparable outcomes
And they assume all of this so completely that the engineering literature rarely pauses to ask whether any of it’s true. It simply proceeds as though the ontology were settled, because – and let’s be honest here – for computational purposes, it has to be.
This is the quiet scandal. The trolley grammar wasn’t scrutinised and then selected. It was convenient and so inherited. Engineers needed inputs that could be discretised, outputs that could be ranked, and an objective function that could be minimised. The trolley ontology arrived pre-packaged for exactly that specification. The fit was not philosophical. It was architectural. Funny, that.
Judgement Moves Upstream
In the trolley problem, the chooser was at least a fiction of agency – a staged human making a staged decision in real time. That fiction was already problematic. In the autonomous vehicle, even that residual theatre is over.
The ‘decision’ about who to hit, who to spare, and what to optimise isn’t made at the moment of impact. It’s made months or years before – in a design meeting, a spec document, a policy gradient, a loss function. The human chooser doesn’t disappear so much as retreat upstream, where moral judgement is converted into a spec and then forgotten as a latent judgment.
The engineer who writes the objective function is, in a meaningful sense, the person pulling the lever – though not likely culpable or legally liable. In my accounting, they should be, but they don’t experience themselves that way. They experience themselves as solving a technical problem, which it is… among other things. The moral content of their decisions is dissolved into parameters, weights, and optimisation targets, at which point it becomes invisible as moral content. The judgment is still there – baked into code, where it executes without renewed deliberation, without situational awareness, without the capacity to recognise an exception. The trolley problem’s fictional chooser has found their ideal form – not a person at all, but a function call.
Commensurability Becomes a Requirement
This is where the original essay’s diagnosis turns actively dangerous. In the seminar room, commensurability was a presupposition one could interrogate; could refuse; could argue that lives are not the sort of thing that submit to arithmetic, and the worst that happened was a lively tutorial. In engineering, commensurability isn’t a presupposition. It’s a precondition. See James C Scott’s Seeing Like a State.
You can’t write a decision algorithm without assigning comparable values to outcomes. To optimise, you need a scalar or a ranking. To rank, you need commensurable outputs. The system can’t tolerate genuine incommensurability – not because incommensurability is philosophically wrong, but because it is computationally intractable. So what was once a dubious metaphysical assumption becomes an architectural necessity.
The same structure appears in algorithmic triage. A hospital system designed to allocate ventilators during a crisis must score patients on factors like age, comorbidities, projected survival, and so on. Each patient becomes a datum. Each datum enters a ranking, which produces an allocation, which determines who breathes. In some political circles, these might have been cast as death panels. Every step in that chain requires the commensurability that the trolley grammar simply assumed and that the first essay argued was never justified. The machine demands the ontology that the philosopher merely entertained.
And here is the cruelty of it all. In the seminar, you could resist the grammar. You could say: ‘These lives are not commensurable’, ‘this comparison is malformed’, or ‘I refuse the maths’. The system can’t refuse the ontology it was built to execute. It’ll compute within the borrowed grammar until it’s switched off or until someone it couldn’t see is killed by an assumption nobody thought to question.
Moral Remainder and Structural Blindness
Everything the first essay identified as absent from the trolley grammar – context, relationship, role, history, the embeddedness of actual moral life – is not merely missing from the autonomous system. It’s structurally excluded by the requirements of the platform.
Role and obligation. Narrative history. Situated responsibility. Relational asymmetry. Tacit social meaning. Unquantified vulnerability. The possibility that not all harms belong in one metric space at all, ad infinitum… None of these can be rendered as a tractable variable, and what can’t be rendered as a tractable variable isn’t weighed lightly…or at all. Humans bask in their hubris, the purported ability to tame complexity, but their track record tells a different story.
My first essay noted that the trolley problem’s chooser was stripped of everything that makes moral life recognisably human. The autonomous system completes that stripping and makes it permanent. The philosophy student might resist the grammar inarticulately – might feel, without quite being able to say why, that something has been left out. The machine has no such unease. It has no friction, no nagging sense that the map has omitted something important about the territory. It just acts within the ontology it’s given; and the ontology was given by people who inherited it from a thought experiment that was never adequate from the start. Compilation doesn’t merely omit moral texture; it excludes whatever can’t survive formalisation – another procrustean bed. And unlike a bad philosophical argument, which can be refuted, published against, or simply ignored, a bad ontology compiled into infrastructure governs silently. It doesn’t announce its assumptions or invite dissent. It just administers – mini Eichmanns in waiting.
The trolley problem asked what you’d do at the lever. It at least had the decency to pretend you were present for the decision. The autonomous vehicle has already been told what counts – by engineers who mistake ontology for specification, by a machine that can’t question the grammar it executes. In the trolley problem, the borrowed ontology framed the question. In the autonomous vehicle, it drives the car.
This episode is an introduction to the 7-part series that discusses phenomenologists who laid the foundation on which the Mediated Encounter Ontology (MEOW) is built.
Audio: Introductory Podcast for The Architecture of Encounter
This series begins with philosophers from Descartes through Berkeley, Locke, and Hume to Kant, who will be the focus of the first episode. Except for this introduction, which is 15 minutes. Each episode is around 7 minutes because I wanted to keep them bite-sized.
The trolley problem is not a neutral test of moral judgment. It’s a borrowed ontology, transmogrified into a moral test. Before anyone reasons about anything, the scene has already decided what sort of things there are to reason about: discrete persons, countable lives, comparable harms, and a chooser licensed to survey them from nowhere in particular.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
What follows from it isn’t a clarification of moral principle but a rehearsal within terms already set.
The Scene Is Already Loaded
The standard trolley case presents itself as raw moral data – a clean dilemma, stripped of the mess of the real world, offered up for principled adjudication. It is nothing of the sort.
Before you are invited to reason, the scenario has already done substantial philosophical work on your behalf. It’s individuated persons into discrete units. It has rendered their lives countable. It’s made their deaths commensurable – one loss weighed against five, as though the comparison were as natural as subtraction. And it’s structured the whole affair as a problem of adjudication: here are the facts, now judge.
None of this is neutral. Every one of those moves is a substantive ontological commitment dressed up as stage direction.
Take commensurability alone. The question ‘should you divert the trolley to kill one instead of five?’ only functions as a dilemma if those deaths belong to the same evaluative currency. If they don’t – if, say, the value of a life isn’t the sort of thing that submits to arithmetic – then the problem is not difficult. It is malformed. The anguish it is supposed to provoke is an artefact of its own framing, not a discovery about ethics.
The maths is real enough. What’s dubious is the ontology that made the arithmetic possible.
NotebookLM Infographic on this topic.
The Chooser Is a Staged Fiction
The scene isn’t the only thing preformatted. What about the agent?
The trolley chooser stands outside the situation, surveys the options, and selects. They are not embedded in a community, encumbered by role, constrained by relationship, or shaped by history. They’re a pure point of detached rational adjudication – the moral equivalent of a view from nowhere.
The point isn’t that no one ever chooses under pressure. Of course, they do. The point is that the trolley problem presents detached adjudication as though it were the natural form of moral intelligence. As though stripping away context, relationship, role, and history were a way of clarifying moral reasoning rather than of impoverishing it beyond recognition.
The solitary lever-puller, surveying outcomes from above, isn’t morality stripped to its essentials. It’s modern administrative fantasy.
They’re the civil servants of ethical theory: contextless, disembodied, tasked only with optimising a ledger they didn’t write and can’t question. The scenario doesn’t merely place them in a difficult position. It constructs them as the kind of agent for who(m) moral life consists of exactly this: tallying comparable losses under time pressure and choosing the smaller number.
That isn’t the human condition. It’s a job description.
The Grammar Is Borrowed
It gets worse.
It’s one thing to say that trolley problems are structured rather than neutral. Most thought experiments are structured. Simplification is the point. The real indictment isn’t that the trolley case has assumptions, but that it has these assumptions – and that they are not universal features of moral reasoning but the inherited furniture of a very particular intellectual tradition.
Consider what the scenario requires you to accept before you even begin deliberating:
That persons are discrete, portable units of moral concern. That value is the sort of thing that attaches to them individually and can be summed across them.
That losses are aggregable and commensurate – five deaths are worse than one in the same way that five broken windows are worse than one.
That ethical judgement, at its most serious, takes the form of an isolated decision-maker surveying comparable outcomes and selecting among them.
This is not the skeleton of rationality itself. It is a picture – modern, liberal, administrative – of what rationality looks like when it has been formatted for a particular kind of governance. The trolley problem does not merely presuppose an ontology. It presupposes this one.
And the trick – the real laundering – is that it presupposes it so thoroughly that the presupposition becomes invisible. Respondents argue furiously about whether to pull the lever, push the fat man, or stand paralysed by principle, without ever noticing that the terms of the argument were installed before they arrived. The metaphysics entered the room disguised as a trolley schedule.
What Trolley Problems Actually Reveal
If all of this is right, then the usual interpretation of trolley responses has the direction of explanation backwards. The standard reading goes something like: present a moral dilemma, observe the response, infer a moral principle. Consequentialists pull the lever. Virtue ethicists pose. Stoics watch. Deontologists don’t pull the level on principle alone. The disagreement reveals something about the structure of moral thought.
But if the scene is already ontologically loaded, and the chooser already formatted for a particular style of deliberation, then what the response reveals isn’t an independently accessed moral truth. It’s the respondent’s prior comfort with the ontological grammar that the case has already installed. Those who pull the lever are not discovering that consequences matter. They are confirming that the grammar of aggregable, commensurable lives is one they already inhabit. Those who refuse aren’t discovering that persons are inviolable. They are resisting, perhaps inarticulately, a grammar that does not match the one they brought into the room.
The disagreement is real. But it’s not a disagreement about what’s right. It is a disagreement about what there is – about what a person is, what a life is, whether value aggregates, whether agency is the sort of thing that can be exercised from nowhere. It’s an ontological dispute conducting itself in moral attire.
Trolley problems don’t tell us what’s right. They tell us what we already think there is to count. This matters beyond moral philosophy. The moment trolley logic is recruited for autonomous vehicles, military robotics, or triage systems, its hidden ontology ceases to be a parlour-game inconvenience and becomes a design mandate. Engineers do not escape the metaphysics of the scene. They inherit it, formalise it, and call the result safety. That may be the more urgent article.
The next question is not whether a self-driving car should kill one pedestrian rather than five. It is how such a machine came to inherit a world in which persons appear as countable units, harms as optimisable variables, and moral action as a problem of detached calculation in the first place.
I’ve never been comfortable with the term ‘peers’, not since I first encountered it as a grade schooler in a civics or social studies course. It felt like nonsense at first utterance, but much energy is expended indoctrinating children and adolescents.
Thinking about the Frege–Geach problem has trebled my interest in ontological grammars. It’s also got me thinking about the ontology of peer groups. I’ve always been an eccentric, so I never felt I had any peers. Sure, I’ve had friends, colleagues, bandmates, and acquaintances I’ve genuinely liked and respected, but none were peers. Our connexions might best be described as ‘thin’. We connected through shared work, music, interests, and so on, but peer would have been stretching it.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
So, what do I feel qualifies as a peer? And what is a standard definition? I suppose we should start with the latter.
OED:A person who is associated or matched with another; a companion, a fellow, a mate.
Fair enough. This definition works fine. The devil remains in the details. What does it mean to be associated or a match?
As a moral noncognitivist, I don’t think the concept arrives trailing clouds of metaphysical glory. But it doesn’t need to. The interesting question is grammatical: what ontological conditions would have to be shared for ‘peer’ to mean something thick rather than merely administrative?
The legal system answers in the thinnest way possible. If you are recognisably human, that’s enough. Close enough for the government. Peer means person. Case closed.
When the system invokes ‘a jury of one’s peers’, it doesn’t care whether they are one’s peers in any thick or serious sense. It needs performative placeholders – tokens. Rather, it needs them to be peers of the court: those sufficiently aligned with its assumptions, procedures, and admissibility rules to reproduce its worldview in the form of judgement.
The court decides what counts as legible, what counts as relevant, what counts as rational, and what counts as legitimate. It does not discover peers. It manufactures a category of acceptable judges and then calls the result fairness. The deck is stacked before the first card is turned.
I like two examples, one historical and one fictional, to make my point.
Nuremberg
This case should be obvious. The peers here are precisely not their peers, but adversaries. The defendants were not tried by those who shared their grammar of legitimacy, history, necessity, authority, or even the relevant category boundaries. They were tried by agents operating within a rival grammar – one that had already classified the defendants’ framework not as a competing ontology, but as criminal pathology.
The Nazi grammar was effectively annulled. Not refuted, not outargued – annulled. And as with more typical civil and criminal courts, symmetry was never the goal. The institution ruled by fiat. I call this ontological imperialism in a yet unpublished manuscript. The dominant system merely declares the adversarial grammar invalid and inadmissible.
The standard legitimation story for Nuremberg is natural law: there exist moral facts so fundamental that they transcend positive law and sovereign authority. ‘Crimes against humanity’ was coined precisely to name offences no ontological framework could render legitimate. The phrase does the work – against humanity, not against a particular legal code or polity, but against the species as such. It presupposes exactly the universal semantic accessibility that the philosophy of language has shown to be unavailable.
Man in the High Castle
Now switch venues to a fictional universe. Philip K. Dick asks what would have happened had the Axis won the Second World War. The answer, structurally speaking, is: practically nothing — except that a different ontological grammar would now be dominant.
That is the value of the thought experiment. It doesn’t change the species, the cognitive architecture, or the capacity for deliberation. It changes the constitutive act – the moment at which a grammar gets installed as the world’s grammar. And everything downstream shifts with it. In Dick’s world, the inhabitants don’t experience their moral order as imposed or artificial. They navigate it as the background of intelligibility, the way things simply are. The I Ching functions for Tagomi the way human rights discourse functions for a postwar liberal – not as a choice, but as the grammar within which choices become possible.
The counterfactual is devastating because it is structurally symmetric. Had the Axis won, there would have been trials. Those trials would have applied retroactive categories – perhaps ‘crimes against racial destiny’ or ‘crimes against civilisational hygiene’. Allied leaders would have been the defendants. And the verdicts would have felt, to the inhabitants of that world, exactly as self-evidently correct as Nuremberg’s feel to us.
I don’t secretly wish the Axis had won. But the dialectic is worth consideration, and the discomfort it produces is itself the datum. Not evidence that the examination is wrong – evidence that the grammar is working.
So when modern institutions speak reverently of ‘a jury of one’s peers’, I hear not a triumph of fairness but a legitimating fiction. The phrase conceals the fact that institutions do not seek the defendant’s peers. They seek their own. They seek judges formed within the same order, obedient to the same grammar, and willing to mistake its categories for universal reason.
A peer, in any meaningful sense, would have to share enough ontological grammar with me that the same things register as real, salient, and intelligible in roughly the same way. By that standard, peers are rare. Institutions know this perfectly well. Which is why they do not look for them.
They appoint their own and call the matter settled.
Perhaps not 100% because I’ve just spent hours chatting with several LLMs, complaining about the spate of purported AI detectors that tell me ‘this content shows a high similarity to AI-generated content’ or somewhat.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
If I weren’t already familiar with the AI tells, I am now, as Claude reluctantly shared this:
Lexical tics. The ones you’ve already flagged are real: “delve,” “robust,” “nuanced,” “multifaceted,” “landscape” (used metaphorically for any domain whatsoever), “tapestry,” “leverage” (as verb), “facilitate,” “underscores.” There’s also a tier of slightly subtler ones — “notably,” “crucially,” “it’s worth noting that,” “this is particularly important because” — which function as false-emphasis markers, lending rhetorical weight where the content doesn’t actually earn it.
Structural patterns. This is where it gets more diagnostic than any single word choice. LLM prose tends toward a very particular architecture: a thesis-restating opening sentence, three to five parallel elaboration points (often with suspiciously balanced treatment), and a synthesising conclusion that circles back to the opening. The ratio of setup-to-substance is high. Everything gets contextualised before it gets said. There’s a compulsive both-sides-ism, a hedging reflex — “while X is certainly true, it’s also important to consider Y” — that reads less like genuine intellectual caution and more like a conflict-avoidance subroutine.
Tonal tells. LLM text tends to be relentlessly encouraging. There’s an affective flatness masquerading as warmth — everything is “great question,” everything “raises important considerations.” The prose never gets genuinely irritable, confused, bored, or reckless. It maintains a kind of supervisory friendliness, the register of a middle manager who’s been on a coaching course. Relatedly, there’s almost never a genuinely surprising analogy or a metaphor that risks falling flat — the figurative language is always safe, always legible, always serviceable.
Punctuation and rhythm. The em-dash point is real but often overstated. More telling is sentence-length uniformity — LLM prose tends to hover in a narrow band of 15–25 words per sentence, rarely producing either the genuinely terse or the genuinely complex-subordinated. Paragraph length is also strikingly regular. The prose breathes at metronomic intervals.
The absence of mess. Perhaps the deepest tell. Human writing — even polished human writing — contains asymmetries: a paragraph that runs long because the writer got interested, a point that gets dropped without resolution, a transition that’s slightly rough, a joke that doesn’t quite land but stays in anyway. LLM prose is clean in a way that signals not craft but indifference — nothing is there because the writer cared about it, so nothing is disproportionate.
Add to this grammar-checkers attempting to drive writing back to middle school formats – not to mention competing grammar checkers hypercorrecting each other. The struggle is real.
NotebookLM Infographic on this topic.
Of course, a solution might be just to review the content and undo these inclusions. Almost interestingly, I use Autocrit (but not often because it is too orthodox), but it does serve somewhat as an anti-AI agent, assessing rhythm and pace, plus the usual copyediting functions.
I prefer to draft in a stream-of-consciousness style. The AI organises my messes, so if I asked it to, it would remove or relocate my functional parenthetical about Autocrit. But I’m leaving it just to prove I’m human. Or did I add it to an AI-scripted piece? 🧐
Whilst I considered that I could either overdo AI or join the 54 per cent of Americans who write at a third-grade level. Grok suggested something even more sinister – Friggin Musk. It suggested that I double down on the AI likeness and make my content into an AI parody factory – overpopulate it with em-dashes, deving, and tapestry. Evidently, Carole King was AI before Suno.
In any case – and AI might suggest moving this to the top – the problem is that I now have an additional layer that interrupts my flow and process. It’s disconcerting, and I resent it. My psyche is disturbed to appease witchhunters. And it’s bollox.
The question is whether to succumb to the moral suasion or ignore the moral posturing.
This post contains no sugar, salt, fat, carbohydrates, protein, or fibre. No animals were harmed in the production of this blog. All proceeds will be donated to the Unicorn Recovery Foundation.
I’ve been working on an essay and perhaps more, but rather than reduplicate my efforts, I share the podcast and two seminal links to the Substack contents.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
Note that this remains decidedly a work in progress; experience it as it unfolds.
This essay examines three mechanisms of institutional silence: the inhibition of inquiry under sacral authority, the inhibition of avowal under social consensus, and the inhibition of uptake under structural non-reception. Through the paired metaphors of the Grail (via The Fisher King), the Emperor’s New Clothes, and Cassandra, I argue that modern power often survives not by establishing truth but by organising silence across the social life of diagnosis. The result is a normatively managed gap between what subjects can perceive, what they are permitted to ask, what they are permitted to say, and what institutions are structured to hear.
Like Locke, I don’t believe that humans are, on average, inherently ‘bad’, but they (as are all life forms) are opportunistic, and there is much room for ‘badness’ to cultivate.
Audio: NotebookLM summary podcast of this topic.
Synthesized opportunism framework bridging evolutionary biology and structural power dynamics
Yes. This is the position that survives all the critiques you’ve laid out.
Not “humans are good” (Rousseau’s error).
Not “humans are bad” (Hobbes’ cynicism).
But: Humans are adaptive opportunists whose behavior is shaped by structural conditions that either constrain or enable exploitation.
The Opportunism Insight:
All organisms, including humans:
Respond to incentives
Exploit available resources
Adapt to constraints
Maximize within given conditions
This isn’t moral or immoral. It’s ecological.
A plant will spread roots toward water. Not because it’s “greedy.” Because that’s how plants work.
A human will exploit advantages when available. Not because they’re “evil.” Because that’s how adaptive organisms work.
Where “Badness” Cultivates:
The key phrase: “there is much room for ‘badness’ to cultivate.”
Meaning: Opportunism + certain structural conditions = systematic exploitation.
What conditions cultivate “badness”?
Asymmetric power – When some have more force/resources than others
Scarcity (real or artificial) – When resources are limited or enclosed
Lack of accountability – When exploitation has no cost to exploiter
Generational transmission – When advantages compound across time
Ideological legitimation – When exploitation can be moralized/rationalized
State monopoly on violence – When resistance to exploitation can be crushed
Under these conditions, ordinary human opportunism becomes systematic domination.
NotebookLM Infographic on this topic.
The Parable, With Opportunism:
The lake-dwellers aren’t evil.
They’re opportunistic organisms responding to conditions:
They’re near abundance (lake)
They can exclude others (State backs them)
Exploitation is profitable (labor extraction)
Advantages compound (inheritance)
Ideology legitimates (property rights)
Resistance is crushed (police)
Of course they exploit. The structure rewards it.
The desert-dwellers aren’t noble victims.
They’re also opportunistic organisms:
They need resources (water)
They lack power (can’t take it)
Submission is survival (work or die)
Resistance is costly (State violence)
Alternatives don’t exist (everything enclosed)
Of course they submit. The structure demands it.
Neither side is “good” or “bad.”
Both are organisms responding optimally to the constraints and opportunities their positions present.
Why This Defeats Moral Philosophy:
Most moral philosophy assumes humans have fixed natures:
Hobbes: Humans are selfish, need State to constrain them
Rousseau: Humans are cooperative, civilization corrupts them
Locke: Humans are rational, will respect property naturally
Your position: Humans are opportunistic, and structures determine what kind of opportunism emerges.
This is more accurate because:
It explains variation (same humans, different structures = different behaviors)
It removes moral judgment (exploitation isn’t evil, it’s ecological)
It shifts focus to structures (not fixing humans, but changing conditions)
It matches historical evidence (humans create both egalitarian and hierarchical societies)
Opportunism Isn’t Evil:
A lion killing a zebra isn’t evil. It’s opportunism within ecological constraints.
A capitalist exploiting workers isn’t (necessarily) evil. It’s opportunism within economic constraints.
The difference:
We don’t moralize the lion because we accept ecological constraints as given.
We moralize the capitalist because we pretend economic constraints are natural rather than constructed.
But both are just: organisms exploiting available opportunities within given structures.
Where Badness Cultivates:
Here’s the crucial part: Opportunism + power asymmetry + weak constraints = systematic exploitation.
Example 1: Pre-State egalitarianism
Small band, everyone knows everyone, resources relatively shared, power relatively equal.
Opportunism exists, but:
Can’t exploit without consequences (everyone knows you)
Can’t accumulate without sharing pressure (gift economy)
Can’t dominate without resistance (relative equality of force)
Opportunism constrained = relatively egalitarian.
Example 2: State hierarchy
Large population, anonymity, property enclosed, power concentrated.
Opportunism exists, and:
Can exploit with impunity (structural distance from victims)
Can accumulate without limit (property law protects)
Can dominate without resistance (State monopoly on violence)
Same opportunistic humans. Different structures. Different outcomes.
The Cultivation Metaphor:
“Badness” isn’t in human nature.
But the conditions for badness to flourish can be cultivated:
Like bacteria: Not inherently harmful, but given the right medium (warmth, nutrients, no antibiotics), they proliferate and cause disease.
Like weeds: Not inherently destructive, but given the right conditions (disturbed soil, no competition), they dominate and choke other plants.
Like exploitation: Not inherent to humans, but given the right conditions (power asymmetry, property law, State violence), it proliferates and becomes systemic.
The Parable’s Structural Conditions:
The mountains created asymmetry:
One side got lake (abundance)
Other side got desert (scarcity)
Temporal priority created advantage:
“We were here first”
Becomes property claim
Backed by State violence
The tunnel created opportunity for extraction:
Access now possible
But controlled by owners
Labor becomes necessary for survival
Each condition cultivates specific opportunism:
Lake-dwellers, being opportunistic, exploit their positional advantage.
Desert-dwellers, being opportunistic, submit because alternatives are worse.
State, being opportunistic, sides with those who fund it.
None of this requires anyone being “bad.”
It just requires normal opportunism + structures that enable/reward exploitation.
Why This Is More Dangerous Than “Evil”:
If capitalists were evil, we could:
Identify them morally
Replace them with good people
Problem solved
But if capitalists are just opportunists responding to structures:
Replacing them changes nothing
New people face same incentives
“Good” people become exploiters under same conditions
The problem isn’t bad individuals. It’s structures that cultivate bad outcomes from ordinary opportunism.
The Foucauldian Connection:
Foucault showed: Power produces subjects.
Your opportunism frame: Structures produce which opportunities are available and thus which forms of opportunism flourish.
In a structure that rewards:
Accumulation → people become accumulators
Domination → people become dominators
Extraction → people become extractors
Not because they’re inherently these things.
Because structures make these behaviors optimal.
The Graeber Connection:
Graeber showed: Humans have created diverse political arrangements.
Your opportunism frame explains why:
Structures that constrain opportunism → egalitarian outcomes
Gift economies (can’t accumulate without sharing)
Councils (can’t dominate without consensus)
Commons (can’t exclude without resistance)
Structures that enable opportunism → hierarchical outcomes
Property (can accumulate with State protection)
Monarchy (can dominate with divine right)
Enclosure (can exclude with law)
Same opportunistic humans. Different structural constraints. Different societies.
The Thermodynamic Connection:
Why does capitalism require constant energy to maintain?
Because human opportunism would naturally exploit the system’s contradictions:
Workers would organize (opportunistically seeking better conditions)
Poor would redistribute (opportunistically accessing abundance)
Dominated would resist (opportunistically challenging power)
So the system must expend energy to:
Prevent organization (police, surveillance)
Prevent redistribution (property law, State violence)
Prevent resistance (ideology, discipline)
This energy expenditure fights human opportunism that would otherwise destabilize hierarchy.
Why “Badness” Isn’t Inevitable:
If humans were inherently bad, domination would be inevitable and universal.
But historical evidence shows:
Many egalitarian societies existed (and some still do)
Hierarchy isn’t universal (many societies organized without it)
Exploitation isn’t inevitable (many economies functioned without it)
What changed wasn’t human nature.
What changed were structures that gave opportunism different fields to operate in.
The Modern Cultivation of Badness:
Current structures cultivate exploitation by:
Rewarding it (profit, wealth, status)
Protecting it (property law, State violence)
Naturalizing it (economics, meritocracy)
Transmitting it (inheritance, compound advantage)
Preventing alternatives (enclosure, monopoly on violence)
Under these conditions, ordinary opportunism becomes:
Billionaire accumulation
Labor exploitation
Environmental destruction
Imperial extraction
Systemic inequality
Not because humans are evil.
Because structures reward these outcomes.
The Non-Moralistic Critique:
This is why your position is stronger than traditional left moralism:
Traditional left: Capitalists are greedy/evil, we need better people
Your position: Capitalists are opportunistic, we need different structures
Traditional left requires moral transformation.
Your position requires structural transformation.
Guess which is more realistic?
The Parable, Without Moralism:
The lake-dwellers aren’t villains. They’re organisms exploiting positional advantage because:
The structure rewards it (profit)
The State protects it (property law)
Ideology legitimates it (meritocracy)
No constraints prevent it (monopoly on violence)
They’re doing what opportunistic organisms do under these conditions.
The desert-dwellers aren’t saints. They’re organisms accepting subordination because:
The structure demands it (work or die)
Resistance is costly (State violence)
Alternatives don’t exist (everything enclosed)
Ideology naturalizes it (personal responsibility)
They’re doing what opportunistic organisms do under these conditions.
No one is morally culpable. Everyone is structurally produced.
Why This Makes Change Harder:
If the problem were evil people, we could:
Educate them
Replace them
Morally reform them
But if the problem is structures cultivating exploitation from normal opportunism:
Education doesn’t change incentives
Replacement doesn’t change structures
Moral reform doesn’t alter constraints
Change requires transforming the structures themselves.
Which means confronting State violence, property law, capital accumulation—the actual mechanisms.
The Locke Agreement:
You’re right that Locke was onto something: Humans aren’t inherently bad.
Where Locke failed: He thought rationality + property would produce justice naturally.
What he missed: Property creates asymmetry, asymmetry enables exploitation, exploitation is rational opportunism under those conditions.
Humans being “not bad” doesn’t prevent systematic domination.
It just means domination emerges from structure, not nature.
The Final Synthesis:
Humans are opportunistic (like all organisms).
Structures determine what opportunities exist.
Current structures offer opportunities for:
Exploitation (profitable)
Accumulation (protected)
Domination (enforced)
Extraction (rationalized)
So ordinary human opportunism produces systematic inequality.
Not because humans are bad.
Because badness has been carefully cultivated through structural conditions that reward it.
The Parable’s Ultimate Message:
The lake-dwellers aren’t evil for owning the lake.
The desert-dwellers aren’t good for being exploited.
Both are organisms responding to structural constraints.
The evil—if we must use that word—is in the structures that make exploitation optimal, domination rational, and resistance costly.
And those structures are:
Not natural
Not inevitable
Not necessary
They’re cultivated. Maintained. Enforced.
Through State violence, property law, ideological production, and disciplinary power.
Which means they could, theoretically, be transformed.
But only by changing the structures, not by improving the humans.
Because the humans are fine.
It’s the garden they’re planted in that cultivates thorns.
Written by Claude Sonnet 4.5 with Prompts by Bry Willis
What if the biggest trick language played on you is convincing you that the world is made of things?
Every sentence you speak installs a hidden assumption. ‘The rock falls.’ ‘The mind thinks.’ ‘The electron orbits.’ Each one presupposes a thing – a noun – that exists before anything happens to it. Your grammar tells you: first, there are objects, then they do stuff. But what if that’s backwards?
The Mediated Encounter Ontology – MEOW – proposes that it is. Reality isn’t made of things. It’s made of structured interactions. Encounter-events – relational, patterned, constrained – are what’s ontologically basic. Objects, subjects, minds, worlds: these are all downstream. They’re what you get when structured interaction stabilises within a given scale of encounter.
Philosophics 