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Last month, Donald Trump appointed the venture capitalist Sriram Krishnan as his senior AI-policy adviser. Krishnan, an Indian immigrant and U.S. citizen, was seen by some as being friendly to H-1B visas, which are often used in Silicon Valley to allow skilled laborers to work in the tech industry. This sent part of the MAGA faction into a frenzy, spurred by troll in chief Laura Loomer, who declared the appointment a betrayal of the “America First” movement.

The argument over H-1Bs exposes an important fissure in the MAGA alliance that worked together to help elect Trump. How Trump navigates this rift will give us clues about what his real priorities will be as president.

In this episode of Radio Atlantic, we talk with Ali Breland, who writes about the internet, technology, and politics, about this new rift in Trump’s camp and other places it might show up. And we’ll go beyond the politics, with staff writer Rogé Karma, to discuss what a solid body of research shows about the relationship between immigrant labor and the American worker—because even though some prominent Democrats, such as Bernie Sanders, agree with Loomer that there is a negative effect from H-1B visas on American workers, research doesn’t back them up.

The following is a transcript of the episode:

Hanna Rosin: There are already cracks starting to show in the MAGA alliance, and those cracks happen to show up in the issue that Trump has declared one of his top priorities, which is drastically reshaping U.S. immigration policy. Trump appointed to a senior position someone seen as being friendly to H-1B visas, the visas that allow people with specialized skills to work in the U.S. People in Silicon Valley love these visas. They depend on them. And maybe more importantly, the H-1B visa lovers include Elon Musk.

But the “America First” wing of Trump supporters—sometimes known as the nativist right—they do not love these visas. “America First,” to them, means, literally, Americans first. No exceptions.

I’m Hanna Rosin. This is Radio Atlantic. On today’s show, we’ll talk about this MAGA infighting. In the second half of the show, we’ll get into what’s actually true about the relationship between immigration and the American worker, because it turns out that even a lot of Democrats don’t get that one right. But first, let’s dive into the recent news and what it means. To help me with that is Ali Breland, an Atlantic staff writer who writes about the internet, politics, and technology.

Hey, Ali.

Ali Breland: Hey. Thank you for having me.

Rosin: So, Ali, this fracture in the MAGA alliance seemed to start around Christmas, when Trump announced a senior AI-policy adviser. Who is he, and how did people respond?

Breland: Yeah, his name is Sriram Krishnan. He’s this Silicon Valley figure who has a long history. He works in tech, and he was being appointed to be an adviser on Trump’s AI team, which is being headed up by another big guy in tech: David Sacks, who’s a part of the infamous “PayPal Mafia” that includes Peter Thiel, Elon Musk, etcetera.

Rosin: So these are, like—this is a faction. Like, these guys are becoming more and more powerful, sort of Trump’s tech allies.

Breland: Yeah, there’s some different ideological things happening, but for the most part, they’re largely on the same page. And a lot of people right now are kind of calling them the “new tech right,” or just, like, the “tech right.”

Rosin: So they’re on one side, and then how did the discussion around H-1B visas get going?

Breland: Yeah, so there’s this provocateur troll in Trump World called Laura Loomer. She’s been kind of this weird thing on the right for a long time. She’s chained herself to the headquarters of Twitter in protest of her account being banned at one point. But she sees this appointment, and she decides to make hay of it.

She pulls out a tweet that Krishnan made about country caps for green cards, rather, and high-skilled immigration. And she points to these things and says, This is not what we want. This is not “America First.” These things are not good for our constituency. And so that’s, like, the sort of obvious bit of it.

The other bit, too, is you can kind of see how race is this animating issue in this fight. David Sacks had already been appointed by Trump to be his chief adviser on issues of AI and crypto. David Sacks has talked about H-1B visas. He’s pushed Trump on this. He’s successfully gotten Trump to say that he would support the continued use of H-1B visas.

But Loomer didn’t attack him on that and didn’t turn this into a huge issue. Instead, she went after Sriram Krishnan, who is South Asian. And I think, you know, her targeting him, specifically, on this issue and associating him with that kind of speaks to the sort of nativist sentiment undergirding all of this.

Kind of right after the election, I sort of thought that maybe there was a chance that there was going to be some sort of fractious element at some point in the future, because these are two sides that kind of believe sort of different things.

The tech right is reactionary, like the nativist right that includes people like Laura Loomer, people like Steve Bannon. They sort of all have this streak of being frustrated with the progress that’s taken place in America. They are frustrated with what they see as, like, American weakness. But the distinction is that the tech right also loves business. They love being rich. They love making a lot of money and having their industry be benefitted.

The sort of nativist right cares much more about the American constituency and, specifically, the white American constituency—and benefitting what they see as, like, the natural order of whiteness and the average American, and things that some people in the tech right kind of care about but prioritize less than their own companies and less than their own industry.

Rosin: It’s really complicated because they both have ideas like, There’s an optimum society; there’s a right way that things should be. And then they’re slightly different. So what is each side’s ideal “America made great again” look like?

Breland: Yeah, I think it on the sort of nativist right, the ideal America is this place that prioritizes—with some exceptions, more so now—but fundamentally, it’s this white, sort of very classic, conventional, conservative vision for what the United States is. It’s this, like, return fantasy to a version of the 1950s America that prioritizes white American interests above other people—again, with exceptions. There’s—you know, these people would all say that they’re not racist, that they’re just meritocratic, or things like that.

The tech right is more agnostic to those kinds of things. People like Marc Andreessen and Peter Thiel kind of, to some degree, see value in that. But they only see value as far as that doesn’t get in the way of their vision for creating this sort of all-star team of Americans that can sort of dominate the global stage in technology and dominate economically.

And so they’re willing to go to look to other countries to bring people in; to try to, like, get the best talent, according to them; to try to solve the toughest engineering problems; and to do things like beat China, which is something that they’re all very obsessed with.

Rosin: So they’re less concerned about where people come from. I mean, what makes it especially complicated and charged that this came up so soon is that it came up in immigration. Trump has made controlling immigration one of his top priorities. How did Trump himself end up weighing in on this?

Breland: After a few days of silence—perhaps because this was happening literally over Christmas and the days after—Trump did say that he does support H-1B visas. And he seemed to kind of take Elon’s side on this.

I wasn’t super surprised, because on an episode of the All-In Podcast—which is a sort of who’s who of the tech right; it includes David Sacks—Trump was pressed on the H-1B visa issue, and he did say, Yeah, I support it; I’m down for this. This was in the summer. And so it was consistent for him to come back up with this. And the other thing it’s sort of consistent with, in a sort of more general, patterny kind of way, is that in the past, when there is sort of tension between his sort of more nationalist, nativist base versus the wealthier interests that are in his coalition—not always, but—he often tends to go with the sort of interests of the wealthy, the people who have given him the most amount of money, people who he probably respects because he has a great deal of respect for people who have built wealth.

And so it wasn’t super surprising to see him break that way, especially because it seems like his larger immigration priority is not regarding H-1Bs, and he seems more flexible on that. His larger immigration priority is people who, as he would say, came here illegally and are not quote-unquote “high-skilled workers.”

And so on the sort of issue of mass deportation, this doesn’t signal that he’s, like, going to break from that at all. He’s talked a lot, very aggressively, about conducting mass deportations and quote-unquote “securing the southern border.” And they talk about the southern border, specifically, because they’re talking about a different kind of immigrant, and they have a different set of priorities when it comes to people coming across the southern border.

Rosin: Interesting. So then, maybe, the thing to explore is the nativist right, not just Laura Loomer. Laura Loomer is, you know, a little more on the fringes. But what about someone like Stephen Miller, who will be Trump’s deputy chief of staff for policy and who is credited with shaping a lot of the more draconian immigration policies in the last administration. He has solid power in this administration. Have we heard from him or someone closer to power about what they think about H-1B visas?

Breland: Miller hasn’t weighed in directly on this specific moment and this specific issue. He sort of gave a cryptic tweet that signaled that he is still anti-H-1B.

But he’s been very consistent on this in the past, and there’s no reason to believe that he would change, as someone who is, like, motivated primarily by this sort of nativist perspective that is, again, sort of galvanized by racial animus and, in many cases, just outright racism. I don’t think he’ll change his perspective, and he’s going to fight on this, and so there’s going to be weird tension moving forward.

Elon seemed to—I don’t want to say he walked back from this position, but, like, after a few days of fighting, he did seem to try to want to soften the blows and sort of extend an olive branch. People in sort of fairly influential but niche figures in this sort of nationalist, reactionary wing of the party also tried to sort of smooth over the tension and make it seem like there was common cause being found. And so they have an interest among themselves in trying to come together and paint themselves as a united front and sort of reach a consensus on this.

Rosin: Yeah, I mean, it’s still early. He hasn’t even taken office yet. But could you imagine a universe where, then, it just moves forward, and we quietly make an exception for elite workers and do mass deportations for everyone else? Like, is that where immigration policy could land?

Breland: Yeah, exactly. I mean, I think that—from my perspective and the things I pay attention to—that seems exactly the direction it’s going to go in.

The tech right is aware of the mass deportations [but] has not really talked out against them. Elon Musk has tweeted acknowledging them and sees them as an inevitability that he doesn’t seem to have a clear problem with. That could change when we sort of get, like, harrowing images of ICE conducting raids and things like that, but right now, that’s the track that we’re on.

Rosin: So if what you said is true, and if the past history holds, he is going to make an exception for elite immigrant workers. What does that imply about how he might handle other economic issues?

Breland: Yeah, if we extrapolate this out, which we can—both from this example but then, also, from how 2016 through 2020 went—Trump is probably going to side, I guess, with more of the wealthier faction, which includes the tech right, which includes people in his coalition, who are people like the hedge-fund manager Scott Bessent, who also sort of have this prioritization of more, like, economically laissez-faire issues. They have this sort of more traditional, conservative perspective on economics. And that’s something that’s going to run into tension with what the nationalists want. They want this sort of economic nationalist perspective that is a departure from this hyper-free-market sort of way of viewing the world that’s been the dominant conservative perspective for the past several decades.

Rosin: So essentially, this rift that you pointed out in the MAGA world—between, you know, Is he going to take the side of the elites, or is he going to take the side of all the workers? even if that means the nativist right—that’s a rift you can track kind of up and down various issues for the next many years, just to see, Okay, whose side does he take on a lot of these issues?

Breland: Exactly. Yeah. AI and automation is going to be a really big one in this area, too, because the tech right obviously cares a lot about AI and automation. They’re very pro-AI and automation. They see this as, like, an existential issue in the United States versus China, and that the U.S. must—to continue its being, like, the most important country in the world—that must beat China on this.

But a lot of the sort of more nationalist right doesn’t agree with this. They see this as a different kind of issue. Tucker Carlson, who I think kind of squarely falls in this nativist camp and is one of its most influential members, has outright said that he opposes—not necessarily the development of AI and automation but—its implementation and use.

He’s talked directly about never using AI for, like, things like driverless trucks. But Elon at Tesla is directly making self-driving trucks. And so yeah, there’s a lot of weird places where these sort of fractures are going to play out.

Rosin: And Tucker Carlson takes that issue because it’s a betrayal of the American worker.

Breland: Precisely.

Rosin: Interesting. So this is, actually, the central fissure of the Trump administration, basically?

Breland: Yeah. Yeah, it seems like that. I do want to say that this is kind of a unique issue, in that it draws in race, which is a very big thing, and it draws in immigration. And so it might get a uniquely high amount of attention. But there’s still going to be versions of this fight that might not play out as aggressively that are going to happen over the next four years.

Rosin: Well, Ali, thank you for pointing out this line to us. We’ll be watching it for the next four years, and thank you for joining me.

Breland: Yeah, thank you so much for having me. I appreciate it.

Rosin: After the break, we explore what’s behind the politics. Trump and his allies made the argument often in the campaign that immigrants take away jobs from Americans. It’s an argument that, on the surface, has some intuitive logic. But it actually doesn’t work like that. More soon.

[Break]

Rosin: Joining me is Atlantic staff writer Rogé Karma, who mainly covers economics. Rogé, welcome to the show.

Rogé Karma: It’s great to be here. Thanks for having me.

Rosin: Sure. So an early rift broke out in the Trump administration over H-1B visas, which we’ve been discussing on this show, with the nativist right saying what people say about all kinds of immigration: These immigrants take jobs away from American workers. So what do we know about the relationship between H-1B visa holders and the American worker?

Karma: Well, luckily, the H-1B program allocates workers randomly to companies based on a lottery. And that allows researchers to study what actually happens to the companies that did get workers, as opposed to the companies that didn’t.

And I agree with you. I think there’s a real sort of “man on the street” argument. There’s a sort of view that there’s a fixed pool of jobs, and so any immigrant that we bring in is going to take away a job that would otherwise go to an American. But when researchers have looked at this, the overwhelming majority of the studies have actually found no negative impact on either employment or wages, which I think at first sounds a little bit counterintuitive.

But the reason is a few fold. One: Companies who get H-1B workers actually end up growing and scaling up faster than the companies who don’t. And then because of that, they have to then hire a bunch of more native-born workers around that immigrant. The second reason is innovation.

One of my favorite statistics comes from Jeremy Neufeld, who’s a fellow at the Institute for Progress. And he pointed out that 30 percent of U.S. patents, almost 40 percent of U.S. Nobel Prizes in science, and more than 50 percent of billion-dollar U.S. startups belong to immigrants. Now, not all of those are H-1B holders, but there’s a lot of evidence that the companies who are awarded H-1B visas—they produce more patents, more new products, get more VC funding, and all of that actually creates jobs. So on the whole, I actually don’t think there’s a lot of evidence for this broader nativist claim about this program.

Rosin: Let’s make this a little more concrete. So let’s just play out a theoretical company. Here’s a theoretical company, hires H-1B visa holders. How does it work? Like, innovation is a vague word. How does it actually play out?

Karma: I think what’s important to remember here is that getting one of these H-1B visas is actually pretty difficult. And so the idea that a company is going to be able to systematically bring in foreign workers to replace their native ones using this program—it’s just really hard to do because there’s such a low chance they’re even going to get those workers in the first place. And so a lot of times when companies use this program, what they’re doing is they’re looking for a very important skill set.

So let’s use semiconductors as an example. This is an industry, when it comes to the manufacturing of semiconductors, that U.S. companies haven’t really done for a while. A lot of the most advanced chips are made in places like Taiwan, and so a lot of the best talent is abroad. And so if you’re a U.S. semiconductor manufacturer, the industry in the U.S. estimates that even if we had the best job-training programs possible, that would only fill about 50 percent of the high-skilled demand for the labor force in this field.

And so you need to bring in folks who have this highly specialized knowledge, probably because they’ve worked in other countries. But then, what that allows you to do, once you have a subset of foreign-born workers who can do this sort of specialized manufacturing—what you then have is people to come in and support around them. And then because a company has that need met, they’re able to then hire a bunch of other workers to fill other needs that they have but that don’t require that same kind of specialized knowledge.

And on the other flip side is that we actually have some studies that look at: What happens to the companies that don’t get H-1B visas? What happens to those companies? Do they hire more native workers? Do they invest in more job training? And it turns out that they don’t. In fact, they end up often just either (A) producing less or growing less quickly, or (B)—and this is a finding of a lot of the recent literature—they end up outsourcing the jobs instead. And so instead of bringing in this new worker and then hiring more native workers around them, they just say, Well, look, we have an office in China, or we have an office in Singapore, or we have an office in Hong Kong or India. Let’s just hire more there because we’re not going to be able to get the talent that we need here.

There are a handful of outlier studies, but I think, right now, the broad consensus in the field is that the H-1B program, even for all its flaws, doesn’t seem to have these negative employment or wage effects.

Rosin: So that’s what the research shows. It’s fairly definitive until now, and yet even some Democrats have repeated the line, The H-1B visas take away American jobs—for example, Bernie Sanders. What do you make of that?

Karma: Well, I think where Bernie’s coming from—and I think where a lot of Democrats are coming from and, quite frankly, some Republicans—is that there are two things that are true here at once. The first thing that’s true is that we don’t find these huge negative effects from the H-1B program. And the second thing that’s also true is that, despite that, the H-1B program has a lot of flaws, a lot of loopholes that companies have learned how to game.

So one of these is that a significant portion of H-1B visas are used by so-called outsourcing firms, which are these companies that basically bring in foreign workers. They train them here, and then, when their H-1B visa expires, they employ them in their home countries for a fraction of the cost. And so they’re functionally using the H-1B visa to train workers here and then employ them at lower labor costs elsewhere.

That’s just bad, on the face of it. The fact that we still don’t see negative effects, overall, is really telling, but we should fix that loophole by, among other things, raising the minimum wage for H-1B visa holders, making the program merit-based instead of random—like, you can more closely regulate how companies use those workers.

So I think part of what Bernie Sanders is getting at, part of what some of these critiques are getting at, is that this program does have a lot of flaws that allow corporations to game it. And it’s actually kind of shocking that, despite all these flaws, it still hasn’t produced these horribly negative results.

But imagine how much better it could be if we fix them. So I really think that this might be a place where you see the sort of messy realities of immigration politics running up against what, really, people all across the political spectrum agree is a pretty common-sense set of reforms. But that doesn’t always mean it makes good politics.

Rosin: Right. Right. Okay. So we’ve been talking exclusively about the H-1B visas because they came up in the news, but the whole of Trump’s promise is not specifically about H-1B visas at all; it’s a promise of mass deportation and immigrant labor, in general. I know that you’ve been looking into the research about the relationship between immigrant labor and the American worker. What did you find?

Karma: Well, I went into this because I kept hearing Donald Trump, J. D. Vance, Stephen Miller make these kind of claims that sound kind of intuitive—that when immigrants come in, they take jobs from natives, right? There’s a sort of Econ 101 logic, which says that when the supply of any good goes up, including labor, the price of that good, like wages, goes down.

And so I kept hearing these arguments and thinking, Well, maybe there’s something to this, and so let’s actually look at what is happening. And it turns out that the sort of Trump-Vance view was pretty much the conventional wisdom for most of the 20th century, both among policymakers and economists, until a study came along that sort of shattered the consensus.

And so to tell you about the study, I’m gonna go back a little bit. So in 1980, Fidel Castro, the president of Cuba, opened up emigration from his country. He lifted the ban on emigration. And what that allowed is for 125,000 Cubans to leave from Mariel Harbor to Miami, Florida, an event that ended up becoming known as the Mariel Boatlift. And in just a few short months, Miami’s workforce expands by about 25 times as much as the U.S. workforce expands every year because of immigration. And this created the perfect conditions for what economists call a “natural experiment.” It was like this big, massive shock that only happened to Miami.

And so what the economist David Card later realized is that you could compare what happened to workers in Miami to workers in other cities that had not experienced the boatlift, track how wages did in both, and then see what actually happened. And his view was, Look—if there is a negative effect of immigration on wages, Miami in the 1980s is exactly where it should show up. It’s this big, unprecedented shock. That makes what he ended up finding so shocking, because he ends up finding that this huge influx of immigrants has virtually no effect on both employment or wages of native-born workers in Miami, including those without a college degree.

Rosin: And why? I mean, it seems counterintuitive.

Karma: It seems completely counterintuitive. There are a few reasons, but I think the big one—and the big thing that the common-sense view of immigration misses—is that immigrants aren’t just workers. They’re also consumers. You know, they’re people who buy things, like healthcare and housing and groceries. And so at the same time that they’re, you know, competing with Americans for jobs, they’re also buying lots of things that then increase the need for more jobs.

And I think this sounds counterintuitive, but we think about it in other contexts all the time, right? When’s the last time you heard a Republican politician railing against the upcoming group of high-school graduates because they were about to come in and compete with, you know, people currently in the workforce?

You probably haven’t, because we understand that population growth has these two sides to it: that people are consumers who create demand for jobs and workers who take jobs. And so I think that’s the gist of the problem with the conventional view.

Rosin: So that was a singular study. Has that held up over time?

Karma: It has. And so after that study, it got a lot of researchers interested, and this has now been studied in countries all over the world, from Israel to Denmark to Portugal to France, and almost all of the high-quality studies come back with very similar results.

I think the one complication in all of this—the one challenge—has been, Well, what about the least-skilled workers? What about: Okay, maybe on average, immigrants don’t hurt the employment prospects or the wages of native-born workers, but what about the least-skilled workers? What about high-school dropouts, folks without a high-school diploma? And a lot of the more recent literature has shown that even that group doesn’t suffer when immigrants come in.

And so I think the broad consensus in the literature now is that immigration does have costs. It can exacerbate inequality. Tellingly, the wages of other immigrants often get hurt by new immigration. You could see some negative effects in certain sectors, even if it’s balanced out by other sectors, but on the whole, it appears to be really beneficial for basically all classes of native workers.

Rosin: So at this point, there’s a large body of research saying the arrival of immigrants—even sudden arrival of immigrants—doesn’t have a great effect on the American worker, may even have a positive effect. Now, what about the disappearance of immigrant labor? Because Trump’s promise is mass deportations. I’m not sure if you can just flip, you know, the findings of this research. Like, is there a similar natural experiment or study that shows how that might affect workers or the economy?

Karma: There is, actually. And I think the claim from Trump and his advisers is that the ultimate pro-worker policy is mass deportation, right? Because what happens when you get rid of a bunch of immigrant laborers is now those employers have to hire natives at higher wages, because there’s a sort of artificially created labor shortage.

Rosin: Right.

Karma: And again, very intuitive. But when we actually look at what happens in the real world, we see something very different. So the best study on this, I think—although there’s a few—is from the Secure Communities program, which is a Department of Homeland Security program that between 2008 and 2014 deported about 500,000 immigrants. And because the program was rolled out community by community, it created this really nice natural experiment where you could see what happened to the communities that had experienced it and the ones [that] hadn’t.

You could compare them and see what the overall effect [was]. And what researchers found, actually, shocked me—it shocked many of them—was that for every hundred immigrants that were deported, you actually ended up with nine fewer jobs for natives. That’s not just temporary work. That’s, like, nine jobs permanently gone in this community.

And there are many studies that reinforce this finding from all across history, from the Bracero program, studies on the H-2B program—which is like H-1B, but for lower-skilled immigrants—studies going all the way back to the Great Depression that all find similar things.

And the reason is that immigrants are deeply interwoven into their local economies. And so take the restaurant industry. If you’re a restaurant owner, and suddenly you lose a big chunk of your workforce, to the point where you either have to have higher labor costs and at the same time you have less demand, there’s a good chance you have to go out of business altogether. And when you go out of business, that doesn’t just hurt the immigrants who are working for you. That also hurts the native-born workers.

And so there are all these sort of synchronicities, all of these interconnections, that allow immigration to have this positive sum effect. But then as soon as you—if you rip out the immigrants, then native workers often get caught in the crossfire.

Rosin: Yeah. So if the research is so consistent—so strong—and makes a lot of sense, if you think about it a tiny bit more deeply, why do you think this sentiment persists? Is it just a feeling, you know? Because it persists on both the right and the left. It’s not as if the left is fighting back. They don’t necessarily advocate mass deportations, but they are also not fighting back against this idea that immigrants take away American jobs.

Karma: I think part of the fixation on the economics of immigration is a way for many people like us—elites, people in the media—to try to find a more materialist explanation for a set of instincts that I think many of us are uncomfortable with. And I think that is actually kind of a tragedy.

I think if people oppose immigration or feel strongly about immigration because of certain cultural beliefs or concerns about national identity, it’s important to take those concerns seriously. And I think it’s actually a problem, and even a bit patronizing, that we tend to project these sort of more wonky economic concerns onto that.

Rosin: Yeah. I had a conversation with Representative Ritchie Torres of New York right after the election, who talked about how a lot of the immigrants in his neighborhood had a surprising amount of anti-undocumented immigrant sentiment.

And it made me wonder about—I don’t even know how to define this, but sense of chaos, just a feeling of things not being in control. It’s sort of the way people feel about crime. There just seems to be a sense that things have run away, and you can’t get ahead. It’s a vague thing, but it is related to—There’s just so much out of control, and I need someone to stop it.

Karma: I actually think that’s a really important point. One of the greatest shifts in public opinion on immigration has happened in the last few years, where in 2020, according to Gallup, only 28 percent of Americans said they wanted immigration decreased.

Four years later, that number was 55 percent. So it had almost doubled. And that is much larger and much faster than even the public-opinion shift on something like gay marriage. So this is a huge, almost unprecedented shift. And as I dug into why, what came up over and over again is this feeling of chaos, this feeling that we are not in control of our own border. And when you actually look at questions about how people feel towards immigrants themselves, they hadn’t changed nearly as much.

People weren’t necessarily anti-immigrant, as much as they felt like the immigration process had gotten out of control and the immigration process was no longer serving the country. And so I think it is really important to distinguish [between] those two things. And I think a lot of the public-opinion shift we’ve seen over the last few years—it isn’t about economics. It’s really about this sense of control and chaos.

Rosin: Yeah. So maybe the place to end is this: Have you talked to anyone or done any thinking about how, in a situation like this, you close the gap? Because we, as journalists—it’s frustrating to us to know that there is an answer. You know, there’s an answer that research has provided. There are truths and facts. And separate from that, there is a perception. So have you thought of or seen anybody talk interestingly about how you bridge a gap like that, where people feel one way that is discordant with what the reality is?

Karma: Unfortunately, like any good journalist, I’m not quite as good at the solutions as I am about identifying the problems. But I will say, I think at the root of a lot of this is the fact that there’s an underlying scarcity. Right?

So I think an example of this is housing. Recently—you know, we haven’t talked about this, in particular—but J. D. Vance and Donald Trump made a big deal in their campaign about how immigrants were responsible for driving up housing costs. That argument has never held weight in American politics before, because it is only over the last decade that housing costs and a housing shortage has become a big problem. When there is material scarcity, people look for a villain; people look for someone to blame. And so I think one answer to, for example, the blaming [of] immigrants for housing costs is to say, Well, if we fix the housing shortage such that people don’t feel that scarcity, maybe we can avoid some of that.

I think the other sort of way I’d look at this is: In some senses, one of the most pro-immigrant things you could do is reduce the amount of chaos, right? So I think there’s actually a sort of middle ground here where you could reduce a lot of the chaos at the border while expanding legal immigration in a way that keeps immigrants coming in but creates a more orderly process that people feel comfortable with. And you can actually get more positive sentiment as a result.

I just think what makes it difficult is the politics are almost perfectly aligned to make that difficult from happening. And it’s been, you know—immigration reform is something that politicians have been talking about for more than 20 years now, and it hasn’t happened.

Rosin: Well, that was really helpful. Rogé, thank you so much for joining me today and talking about this.

Karma: Thank you so much for having me. It was a pleasure.

Rosin: This episode was produced by Kevin Townsend and edited by Claudine Ebeid. Rob Smierciak engineered, and Sara Krolewski fact-checked. Claudine Ebeid is the executive producer of Atlantic audio, and Andrea Valdez is our managing editor.

My thanks to Ali Breland and Rogé Karma for joining me. If you’d like to hear Rogé go even deeper on the research into immigration’s economic impact, you can hear him on another Atlantic podcast called Good on Paper. It’s hosted by staff writer Jerusalem Demsas, and that episode is linked in the show notes.

I’m Hanna Rosin. Thank you for listening.

The human cell is a miserable thing to study. Tens of trillions of them exist in the body, forming an enormous and intricate network that governs every disease and metabolic process. Each cell in that circuit is itself the product of an equally dense and complex interplay among genes, proteins, and other bits of profoundly small biological machinery.

Our understanding of this world is hazy and constantly in flux. As recently as a few years ago, scientists thought there were only a few hundred distinct cell types, but new technologies have revealed thousands (and that’s just the start). Experimenting in this microscopic realm can be a kind of guesswork; even success is frequently confounding. Ozempic-style drugs were thought to act on the gut, for example, but might turn out to be brain drugs, and Viagra was initially developed to treat cardiovascular disease.

Speeding up cellular research could yield tremendous things for humanity—new medicines and vaccines, cancer treatments, even just a deeper understanding of the elemental processes that shape our lives. And it’s beginning to happen. Scientists are now designing computer programs that may unlock the ability to simulate human cells, giving researchers the ability to predict the effect of a drug, mutation, virus, or any other change in the body, and in turn making physical experiments more targeted and likelier to succeed. Inspired by large language models such as ChatGPT, the hope is that generative AI can “decode the language of biology and then speak the language of biology,” Eric Xing, a computer scientist at Carnegie Mellon University and the president of Mohamed bin Zayed University of Artificial Intelligence, in the United Arab Emirates, told me.

Much as a chatbot can discern style and perhaps even meaning from huge volumes of written language, which it then uses to construct humanlike prose, AI could in theory be trained on huge quantities of biological data to extract key information about cells or even entire organisms. This would allow researchers to create virtual models of the many, many cells within the body—and act upon them. “It’s the holy grail of biology,” Emma Lundberg, a cell biologist at Stanford, told me. “People have been dreaming about it for years and years and years.”

These grandiose claims—about so ambiguous and controversial a technology as generative AI, no less—may sound awfully similar to self-serving prophesies from tech executives: OpenAI’s Sam Altman, Google DeepMind’s Demis Hassabis, and Anthropic’s Dario Amodei have all declared that their AI products will soon revolutionize medicine.

If generative AI does make good on such visions, however, the result may look something like the virtual cell that Xing, Lundberg, and others have been working toward. (Last month, they published a perspective in Cell on the subject. Xing has taken the idea a step further, co-authoring several papers about the possibility that such virtual cells could be combined into an “AI-driven digital organism”—a simulation of an entire being.) Even in these early days—scientists told me that this approach, if it proves workable, may take 10 or 100 years to fully realize—it’s a demonstration that the technology’s ultimate good may come not from chatbots, but from something much more ambitious.

Efforts to create a virtual cell did not begin with the arrival of large language models. The first modern attempts, back in the 1990s, involved writing equations and code to describe every molecule and interaction. This approach yielded some success, and the first whole-cell model, of a bacteria species, was eventually published in 2012. But it hasn’t worked for human cells, which are more complicated—scientists lack a deep enough understanding to imagine or write all of the necessary equations, Lundberg said.

The issue is not that there isn’t any relevant information. Over the past 20 years, new technologies have produced a trove of genetic-sequence and microscope data related to human cells. The problem is that the corpus is so large and complex that no human could possibly make total sense of it. But generative AI, which works by extracting patterns from huge amounts of data with minimal human instructions, just might. “We’re at this tipping point” for AI in biology, Eran Segal, a computational biologist at the Weizmann Institute of Science and a collaborator of Xing’s, told me. “All the stars aligned, and we have all the different components: the data, the compute, the modeling.”

Scientists have already begun using generative AI in a growing number of disciplines. For instance, by analyzing years of meteorological records or quantum-physics measurements, an AI model might reliably predict the approach of major storms or how subatomic particles behave, even if scientists can’t say why the predictions are accurate. The ability to explain is being replaced by the ability to predict, human discovery supplanted by algorithmic faith. This may seem counterintuitive (if scientists can’t explain something, do they really understand it?) and even terrifying (what if a black-box algorithm trusted to predict floods misses one?). But so far, the approach has yielded significant results.

[Read: Science is becoming less human]

“The big turning point in the space was six years ago,” Ziv Bar-Joseph, a computational biologist at Carnegie Mellon University and the head of research and development and computational sciences at Sanofi, told me. In 2018—before the generative-AI boom—Google DeepMind released AlphaFold, an AI algorithm that functionally “solved” a long-standing problem in molecular biology: how to discern the three-dimensional structure of a protein from the list of amino acids it is made of. Doing so for a single protein used to take a human years of experimenting, but in 2022, just four years after its initial release, AlphaFold predicted the structure of 200 million of them, nearly every protein known to science. The program is already advancing drug discovery and fundamental biological research, which won its creators a Nobel Prize this past fall.

The program’s success inspired researchers to design so-called foundation models for other building blocks of biology, such as DNA and RNA. Inspired by how chatbots predict the next word in a sentence, many of these foundation models are trained to predict what comes next in a biological sequence, such as the next set of As, Ts, Gs, and Cs that make up a strand of DNA, or the next amino acid in a protein. Generative AI’s value extends beyond straightforward prediction, however. As they analyze text, chatbots develop abstract mathematical maps of language based on the relationships between words. They assign words and sentences coordinates on those maps, known as “embeddings”: In one famous example, the distance between the embeddings of queen and king is the same as that between woman and man, suggesting that the program developed some internal notion of gender roles and royalty. Basic, if flawed, capacities for mathematics, logical reasoning, and persuasion seem to emerge from this word prediction.

Many AI researchers believe that the basic understanding reflected in these embeddings is what allows chatbots to effectively predict words in a sentence. This same idea could be of use in biological foundation models as well. For instance, to accurately predict a sequence of nucleotides or amino acids, an algorithm might need to develop internal, statistical approximations of how those nucleotides or amino acids interact with one another, and even how they function in a cell or an organism.

Although these biological embeddings—essentially a long list of numbers—are on their own meaningless to people, the numbers can be fed into other, simpler algorithms that extract latent “meaning” from them. The embeddings from a model designed to understand the structure of DNA, for instance, could be fed into another program that predicts DNA function, cell type, or the effect of genetic mutations. Instead of having a separate program for every DNA- or protein-related task, a foundation model can address many at once, and several such programs have been published over the past two years.

Take scGPT, for example. This program was designed to predict bits of RNA in a cell, but it has succeeded in predicting cell type, the effects of genetic alterations, and more. “It turns out by just predicting next gene tokens, scGPT is able to really understand the basic concept of what is a cell,” Bo Wang, one of the programs’ creators and a biologist at the University of Toronto, told me. The latest version of AlphaFold, published last year, has exhibited far more general capabilities—it can predict the structure of biological molecules other than proteins as well as how they interact. Ideally, the technology will make experiments more efficient and targeted by systematically exploring hypotheses, allowing scientists to physically test only the most promising or curiosity-inducing. Wang, a co-author on the Cell perspective, hopes to build even more general foundation models for cellular biology.

The language of biology, if such a thing exists, is far more complicated than any human tongue. All the components and layers of a cell affect one another, and scientists hope that composing various foundation models creates something greater than the sum of their parts—like combining an engine, a hull, landing gear, and other parts into an airplane. “Eventually it’s going to all come together into one big model,” Stephen Quake, the head of science at the Chan Zuckerberg Initiative (CZI) and a lead author of the virtual-cell perspective, told me. (CZI—a philanthropic organization focused on scientific advancement that was co-founded by Priscilla Chan and her husband, Mark Zuckerberg—has been central in many of these recent efforts; in March, it held a workshop focused on AI in cellular biology that led to the publication of the perspective in Cell, and last month, the group announced a new set of resources dedicated to virtual-cell research, which includes several AI models focused on cell biology.)

In other words, the idea is that algorithms designed for DNA, RNA, gene expression, protein interactions, cellular organization, and so on might constitute a virtual cell if put together in the right way. “How we get there is a little unclear right now, but I’m confident it will,” Quake said. But not everyone shares his enthusiasm.

Across contexts, generative AI has a persistent problem: Researchers and enthusiasts see a lot of potential that may not always work out in practice. The LLM-inspired approach of predicting genes, amino acids, or other such biological elements in a sequence, as if human cells and bodies were sentences and libraries, is in its “very early days,” Quake said. Xing likened his and similar virtual-cell research to having a “GPT-1” moment, referencing an early proof-of-concept program that eventually led to ChatGPT.

Although using deep-learning algorithms to analyze huge amounts of data is promising, the quest for more and more universal solutions struck some researchers I spoke with as well-intentioned but unrealistic. The foundation-model approach in Xing’s AI-driven digital organisms, for instance, suggests “a little too much faith in the AI methods,” Steven Salzberg, a biomedical engineer at Johns Hopkins University, told me. He’s skeptical that such generalist programs will be more useful than bespoke AI models such as AlphaFold, which are tailored to concrete, well-defined biological problems such as protein folding. Predicting genes in a sequence didn’t strike Salzberg as an obviously useful biological goal. In other words, perhaps there is no unifying language of biology—in which case no embedding can capture every relevant bit of biological information.

[Read: We’re entering uncharted territory for math]

More important than AlphaFold’s approach, perhaps, was that it reliably and resoundingly beat other, state-of-the-art protein-folding algorithms. But for now, “the jury is still out on these cell-based models,” Bar-Joseph, the CMU biologist, said. Researchers have to prove how well their simulations work. “Experiment is the ultimate arbiter of truth,” Quake told me—if a foundation model predicts the shape of a protein, the degree of a gene’s expression, or the effects of a mutation, but actual experiments produce confounding results, the model needs reworking.

Even with working foundation models, the jump from individual programs to combining them into full-fledged cells is a big one. Scientists haven’t figured out all of the necessary models, let alone how to assemble them. “I haven’t seen a good application where all these different models come together,” Bar-Joseph said, though he is optimistic. And although there are a lot of data for researchers to begin with, they will need to collect far more moving forward. “The key challenge is still data,” Wang said. For example, many of today’s premier cellular data sets don’t capture change over time, which is a part of every biological process, and might not be applicable to specific scientific problems, such as predicting the effects of a new drug on a rare disease. Right now, the field isn’t entirely sure which data to collect next. “We have sequence data; we have image data,” Lundberg said. “But do we really know which data to generate to reach the virtual cell? I don’t really think we do.”

In the near term, the way forward might not be foundation models that “understand” DNA or cells in the abstract, but instead programs tailored to specific queries. Just as there isn’t one human language, there may not be a unified language of biology, either. “More than a universal system, the first step will be in developing a large number of AI systems that solve specific problems,” Andrea Califano, a computational biologist at Columbia and the president of the Chan Zuckerberg Biohub New York, and another co-author of the Cell perspective, told me. Even if such a language of biology exists, aiming for something so universal could also be so difficult as to waste resources when simpler, targeted programs would more immediately advance research and improve patients’ lives.

Scientists are trying anyway. Every level of ambition in the quest to bring the AI revolution to cell biology—whether modeling of entire organisms, single cells, or single processes within a cell—emerges from the same hope: to let virtual simulations, rather than physical experiments, lead the way. Experiments may always be the arbiters of truth, but computer programs will determine which experiments to carry out, and inform how to set them up. At some point, humans may no longer be making discoveries so much as verifying the work of algorithms—constructing biological laboratories to confirm the prophecies of silicon.

A Silicon Valley software engineer is leveraging her technological expertise to help patients use AI to fight back against health insurance claim denials — some of which may have been driven by AI themselves.

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It took my father nearly 70 years to become a social butterfly. After decades of tinkering with Photoshop on a decrepit Macintosh, he upgraded to an iPad and began uploading collages of photos he took on nighttime walks around London to Flickr and then to Instagram. The likes came rolling in. A photographer from Venezuela applauded his composition. A violinist in Italy struck up a conversation about creativity.  

And then, as quickly as he had made his new friends, he lost them. One night in 2020, he had a seizure. Then he began forgetting things that he’d just been told and sleeping most of the day. When he picked up his iPad again, it was incomprehensible to him. A year or so later, he put an electric kettle on the gas stove. Not long after, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s.

An estimated 7 million Americans age 65 and older are currently living with Alzheimer’s; by 2050, that number is expected to rise to nearly 13 million. Millions more have another form of dementia or cognitive decline. These diseases can make simple tasks confusing, language hard to understand, and memory fleeting, none of which is conducive to social connection. And because apps and websites constantly update, they pose a particular challenge for patients who cannot learn or remember, which means that people like my father, who rely heavily on social media to stay in touch, may face an even higher barrier to communication.  

When my father turned on his iPad again about a year after his seizure, he couldn’t find the Photoshop app because the logo had changed. Instagram, which now had Reels and a shopping tab, was unnavigable. Some of his followers from Instagram and Flickr had moved on to a new app—TikTok—that he had no hope of operating. Whenever we speak, he asks me where his former life has disappeared to: “Where are all my photos?” “Why did you delete your profile?” “I wrote a reply to a message; where has it gone?” Of all the losses caused by Alzheimer’s, the one that seems to have brought him the most angst is that of the digital world he had once mastered, and the abilities to create and connect that it had afforded him.

[Read: My dad had dementia. He also had Facebook.]

In online support forums, caretakers of Alzheimer’s and dementia patients describe how their loved ones struggle to navigate the platforms they were once familiar with. One member of the r/dementia Subreddit, who requested not to be identified out of respect for her father’s privacy, told me that, about a decade ago, her father had been an avid emailer and used a site called Friends Reunited to recall the past and reconnect with old acquaintances. Then he received his dementia diagnosis after back-to-back strokes; his PC now sits unused. Amy Evans, a 62-year-old in Sacramento, told me that her father, who passed away in May at the age of 92, started behaving erratically online at the onset of Alzheimer’s. He posted on Facebook that he was looking for a sex partner. Then he began responding to scam emails and ordering, among other things, Xanax from India. Evans eventually installed child-protection software on his computer and gave him a GrandPad to connect with family and friends. But he kept forgetting how to use it. Nasrin Chowdhury, a former public-school teacher’s aide who lives in New York City, once used Facebook to communicate daily with family and friends, but now, after a stroke and subsequent Alzheimer’s diagnosis at 55, she will sit for hours tapping the screen with her finger—even if nothing is there, her daughter Eshita Nusrat told me. “I’ll come home from work, and she’ll say she texted me and I never replied, but then I’ll look at her phone and she tried to type it out in YouTube and post it as a video,” Chowdhury’s other daughter, Salowa Jessica, said. Now Chowdhury takes calls with the aid of her family, but she told me that, because she can’t use social media, she feels she has no control of her own life.

Many patients with dementia and related cognitive disorders lose the ability to communicate, regardless of whether they use technology to do it. It’s a vicious cycle, Joel Salinas, a clinical assistant professor of neurology at NYU Grossman School of Medicine, told me, because social disconnect can, in turn, hasten the cognitive degeneration caused by Alzheimer’s and dementia. Social media, by its very nature, is an especially acute challenge for people with dementia. The online world is a largely visual medium with a complex array of workflows, and dementia commonly causes visual processing to be interrupted or delayed. And unlike face-to-face conversation, landlines, or even flip phones, social media is always evolving. Every few months on a given platform, buttons might be changed, icons reconfigured, or new features released. Tech companies say that such changes make the user experience more seamless, but those with short-term memory loss can find the user experience downright impossible.

On the whole, social-media companies have not yet found good solutions for users with dementia, JoAnne Juett, Meta’s enterprise product manager for accessibility, told me. “I would say that we’re tackling more the loss of vision, the loss of hearing, mobility issues,” she said. Design changes that address such disabilities might help many dementia patients who, thanks to their advanced age, have limited mobility. But to accommodate the unique needs of an aging or cognitively disabled user, Juett believes that AI might be crucial. “If, let’s say, Windows 7 is gone, AI could identify my patterns of use, and adapt Windows 11 for me,” she said. Juett also told me her 97-year-old mother now uses Siri to make calls. It allows her to maintain social ties even when she can’t keep track of where the Phone app lives on her iPhone’s screen.

[Read: How people with dementia make sense of the world]

The idea of a voice assistant that could reconnect my father to his online world is enticing. I wish he had a tool that would allow him to connect in the ways that once gave him joy. Such solutions will become only more necessary: Americans are, on average, getting both older and more reliant on technology to communicate. The oldest Americans, who are most likely to experience cognitive decline, came to social media later in life—and still, nearly half of the population over 65 uses it. Social media is an inextricable part of how younger generations connect. If the particular loneliness of forgetting how to use social media is already becoming apparent, what will happen when an entire generation of power users comes of age?

A slab of uplifted rock larger than Italy sits in the center of the American Southwest. It is called the Colorado Plateau, and it is a beautiful place, higher ground in every sense. What little rain falls onto the plateau has helped to inscribe spectacular canyons into its surface. Ice Age mammoth hunters were likely the first human beings to wander among its layered cliff faces and mesas, where the exposed sedimentary rock comes in every color between peach and vermillion. Native Americans liked what they saw, or so it seems: The plateau has been inhabited ever since, usually by many tribes. They buried their dead in its soil and built homes that blend in with the landscape. In the very heart of the plateau, the Ancestral Pueblo people wedged brick dwellings directly into the banded cliffs.

Some of the best-preserved Ancestral Pueblo ruins are located near two 9,000-foot buttes in southeastern Utah, 75 miles from where its borders form a pair of crosshairs with those of Colorado, New Mexico, and Arizona. The Ancestral Pueblo were not the only Native Americans in the area. Other tribes lived nearby, or often passed through, and many of them describe the buttes as “Bears Ears” in their own languages. Thousands of archaeological sites are scattered across the area, but they have not always been properly cared for. Uranium miners laid siege to the landscape during the early atomic age, and in the decades since, many dwellings and graves have been looted.

In 2015, five federally recognized tribes—the Navajo Nation, the Zuni, the Hopi, the Mountain Ute, and the Ute—joined together to request that President Barack Obama make Bears Ears a national monument. The Bears Ears Inter-Tribal Coalition, as they called themselves, wanted to protect as many cultural sites as possible from further desecration. They asked for nearly 2 million acres centered on the buttes. In 2016, Obama created a monument of roughly two-thirds that size.

The borders of that monument have been shifting ever since. In late 2017, President Donald Trump erased all but roughly 15 percent of the protected land, in the name of reversing federal overreach and restoring local control; and in the years that followed, mining companies staked more than 80 new hard-rock claims within its former borders. The majority were for uranium and vanadium, minerals that are in demand again, now that a new nuclear arms race is on, and tech companies are looking for fresh ways to power the AI revolution.

In 2021, President Joe Biden put the monument’s borders back to where they’d started—and the miners’ claims were put on hold. Now Trump is reportedly planning to shrink Bears Ears once again, possibly during his first week in office.

With every new election, more than 1 million acres have flickered in and out of federal protection. People on both sides of the fight over Bears Ears feel jerked around. In southeastern Utah, the whipsaw of American politics is playing out on the ground, frustrating everyone, and with no end in sight.

Vaughn Hadenfeldt has worked as a backcountry guide in Bears Ears since the 1970s. He specializes in archaeological expeditions. Back when he started, the area was besieged by smash-and-grab looters. They used backhoes to dig up thousand-year-old graves in broad daylight, he told me. Some of these graves are known to contain ceramics covered in geometrical patterns, turquoise jewelry, and macaw-feather sashes sourced from the tropics. Thieves made off with goods like these without even bothering to refill the holes. Later on, after Bears Ears had become a popular Utah stopover for tourists passing through to Monument Valley, the looters had to be more discreet. They started coming in the winter months, Hadenfeldt told me, and refilling the ancient graves that they pillaged. “The majority of the people follow the rules, but it takes so few people who don’t to create lifelong impacts on this type of landscape,” he said.

Hadenfeldt lives in Bluff, Utah, a small town to the southeast of Bears Ears. Its population of 260 includes members of the Navajo Nation, artists, writers, archaeologists, and people who make their living in the gentler outdoor recreation activities. (Think backpacking and rock climbing, not ATVs.) The town’s mayor, Ann Leppanen, told me that, on the whole, her constituents strongly oppose any attempt to shrink the monument. More tourists are coming, and now they aren’t just passing through on the way to Monument Valley. They’re spending a night or two, enjoying oat-milk lattes and the like before heading off to Bears Ears.

[Read: What kinds of monuments does Trump value?]

But Bluff is a blue pinprick in bright-red southern Utah, where this one town’s affection for the monument is not so widely shared. Bayley Hedglin, the mayor of Monticello, a larger town some 50 miles north, described Bluff to me as a second-home community, a place for “people from outside the area”—code for Californians—or retirees. For her and her constituents, the monument and other public lands that surround Monticello are like a boa constrictor, suffocating their town by forcing it into a tourism economy of low-paying, seasonal jobs. The extra hikers who have descended on the area often need rescuing. She said they strain local emergency-services budgets.

I asked Hedglin which industries she would prefer. “Extraction,” she said. Her father and grandfather were both uranium miners. “San Juan County was built on mining, and at one time, we were very wealthy,” she said. She understood that the monument was created at the behest of a marginalized community, but pointed out that the residents of Monticello, where the median household income is less than $64,000, are marginalized in their own right. I asked what percentage of them support the national monument. “You could probably find 10,” she said. “10 percent?” I asked. “No, 10 people,” she replied.

The two bluffs known as the "Bears Ears" stand off in the distance at sunset in the Bears Ears National Monument on May 11, 2017 outside Blanding, Utah. George Frey / Getty

The election-to-election uncertainty is itself a burden, Hedglin said. “It makes it hard to plan for the future. Even if Trump shrinks the monument again, we can’t make the development plans that we need in Monticello, because we know that there will be another election coming.” Britt Hornsby, a staunchly pro-monument city-council member in Bluff, seemed just as disheartened by what he called the federal government’s “ping-pong approach” to Bears Ears. “We’ve had some folks in town looking to start a guiding business,” he said, “but they have been unable to get special recreation permits with all the back-and-forth.”

[Read: Return the national parks to the tribes]

The only conventional uranium-processing mill still active in the United States sits just outside the borders of another nearby town, Blanding. Phil Lyman, who, until recently, represented Blanding and much of the surrounding area in Utah’s House of Representatives, has lived there all of his life. Lyman personifies resistance to the monument. He told me that archaeological sites were never looted en masse, as Hadenfeldt had said. This account of the landscape was simply “a lie.” (In 2009, federal agents raided homes in Blanding and elsewhere, recovering some 40,000 potentially stolen artifacts.) While Lyman was serving as the local county commissioner in 2014, two years before Bears Ears was created, he led an illegal ATV ride into a canyon that the Bureau of Land Management had closed in order to protect Ancestral Pueblo cliff dwellings. Some associates of the anti-government militant Ammon Bundy rode along with him. A few were armed.

To avoid violence, assembled federal agents did not make immediate arrests, but Lyman was later convicted, and served 10 days in jail. The stunt earned him a pardon from Trump and a more prominent political profile in Utah.When Biden re-expanded the monument in 2021, Lyman was furious. While he offered general support for the state of Utah’s legal efforts to reverse Biden’s order, he also said that his paramount concern was not these “lesser legal arguments” but “the federal occupation of Utah” itself. Like many people in rural Utah, Lyman sees the monument as yet another government land grab, in a state where more than 60 percent of the land is public. The feds had colluded with environmentalists to designate the monument to shut down industries, in a manner befitting of Communists, he told me.

Davina Smith, who sits on the board of the Bears Ears Inter-Tribal Coalition as representative for the Navajo Nation, grew up just a mile outside of Bears Ears. She now lives in Blanding, not far from Lyman. Her father, like Mayor Hedglin’s, was a uranium miner. But Native Americans haven’t always been treated like they belong here, she told me. “People in Utah say that they want local control, but when we tried to deal with the state, we were not viewed as locals.” Indeed, for more than 30 years, San Juan County’s government was specifically designed to keep input from the Navajo to a minimum. Only in 2017 did a federal court strike down a racial-gerrymandering scheme that had kept Navajo voting power confined to one district.

Smith, too, has been tormented by what she called the “never-ending cycle of uncertainty” over the monument. The tribes have just spent three years negotiating a new land-management plan with the Biden administration, and it may be all for naught. “Each new administration comes in with different plans and shifting priorities, and nothing ever feels like it’s moving toward a permanent solution,” Smith said.

The judicial branch of the federal government will have some decisions of its own to make about the monument, and may inject still more reversals. In 2017, the Bears Ears Inter-Tribal Coalition and other groups sued the government over Trump’s original downsizing order, arguing that the president’s power to create national monuments under the Antiquities Act is a ratchet—a power to create, not shrink or destroy. No federal judge had ruled on that legal question by the time of Biden’s re-expansion, and the lawsuit was stayed. If Trump now shrinks the monument again, the lawsuit will likely be reactivated, and new ones likely filed. A subsequent ruling in Trump’s favor would have far-reaching implications if it were upheld by the Supreme Court. It would defang the Antiquities Act, a statute that was written to protect Native American heritage, empowering any president to shrink any of America’s national monuments on a whim. (The Biden administration launched an historic run of monument creation. Project 2025, a policy blueprint co-written by Trump’s former head of BLM, calls for a shrinking spree.) The borders of each one could begin to pulsate with every subsequent presidential handover.

An act of Congress might be the only way to permanently resolve the Bears Ears issue. Even with Republican lawmakers in control, such an outcome may be preferable to the endless flip-flops of executive power, Hillary Hoffmann, a co-director of the Bears Ears Inter-Tribal Coalition, told me. “The tribes have built bipartisan relationships with members of Congress.” They might not get as much land for the monument as they did under Obama or Biden, she said, but perhaps a grand bargain could be struck. A smaller allotment of protected land could be exchanged for the stability that would allow local communities—including monument supporters and opponents alike—to plan for their future.

In the meantime, people in southeastern Utah are waiting to see what Trump actually does. When I asked Smith how the tribes are preparing for the new administration, she was coy. She didn’t want to telegraph the coalition’s next moves. “We are definitely planning,” she told me. “This isn’t our first time.” Everyone in the fight over Bears Ears has to find some way to cope with the uncertainty; for Smith, it’s taking the long view. She invoked the deeper history of the Colorado Plateau. She called back to the Long Walk of the Navajo, a series of 53 forced marches that the U.S. Army used to remove thousands of tribe members from their land in New Mexico and Arizona in the 1860s. “When the cavalry came to round up my people, some of them sought refuge in Bears Ears,” she said. “To this day, I can go there and remember what my ancestors did. I can remember that we come from a great line of resilience.”

Illustrations by Max Guther

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The Bar Is Closed

A short drive from my home in North Carolina is a small Mexican restaurant, with several tables and four stools at a bar facing the kitchen. On a sweltering afternoon last summer, I walked in with my wife and daughter. The place was empty. But looking closer, I realized that business was booming. The bar was covered with to-go food: nine large brown bags.

As we ate our meal, I watched half a dozen people enter the restaurant without sitting down to eat. Each one pushed open the door, walked to the counter, picked up a bag from the bar, and left. In the delicate choreography between kitchen and customer, not a word was exchanged. The space once reserved for that most garrulous social encounter, the bar hangout, had been reconfigured into a silent depot for customers to grab food to eat at home.

Until the pandemic, the bar was bustling and popular with regulars. “It’s just a few seats, but it was a pretty happening place,” Rae Mosher, the restaurant’s general manager, told me. “I can’t tell you how sad I’ve been about it,” she went on. “I know it hinders communications between customers and staff to have to-go bags taking up the whole bar. But there’s nowhere else for the food to go.” She put up a sign: BAR SEATING CLOSED.

The sign on the bar is a sign of the times for the restaurant business. In the past few decades, the sector has shifted from tables to takeaway, a process that accelerated through the pandemic and continued even as the health emergency abated. In 2023, 74 percent of all restaurant traffic came from “off premises” customers—that is, from takeout and delivery—up from 61 percent before COVID, according to the National Restaurant Association.

The flip side of less dining out is more eating alone. The share of U.S. adults having dinner or drinks with friends on any given night has declined by more than 30 percent in the past 20 years. “There’s an isolationist dynamic that’s taking place in the restaurant business,” the Washington, D.C., restaurateur Steve Salis told me. “I think people feel uncomfortable in the world today. They’ve decided that their home is their sanctuary. It’s not easy to get them to leave.” Even when Americans eat at restaurants, they are much more likely to do so by themselves. According to data gathered by the online reservations platform OpenTable, solo dining has increased by 29 percent in just the past two years. The No. 1 reason is the need for more “me time.”

The evolution of restaurants is retracing the trajectory of another American industry: Hollywood. In the 1930s, video entertainment existed only in theaters, and the typical American went to the movies several times a month. Film was a necessarily collective experience, something enjoyed with friends and in the company of strangers. But technology has turned film into a home delivery system. Today, the typical American adult buys about three movie tickets a year—and watches almost 19 hours of television, the equivalent of roughly eight movies, on a weekly basis. In entertainment, as in dining, modernity has transformed a ritual of togetherness into an experience of homebound reclusion and even solitude.

The privatization of American leisure is one part of a much bigger story. Americans are spending less time with other people than in any other period for which we have trustworthy data, going back to 1965. Between that year and the end of the 20th century, in-person socializing slowly declined. From 2003 to 2023, it plunged by more than 20 percent, according to the American Time Use Survey, an annual study conducted by the Bureau of Labor Statistics. Among unmarried men and people younger than 25, the decline was more than 35 percent. Alone time predictably spiked during the pandemic. But the trend had started long before most people had ever heard of a novel coronavirus and continued after the pandemic was declared over. According to Enghin Atalay, an economist at the Federal Reserve Bank of Philadelphia, Americans spent even more time alone in 2023 than they did in 2021. (He categorized a person as “alone,” as I will throughout this article, if they are “the only person in the room, even if they are on the phone” or in front of a computer.)

Eroding companionship can be seen in numerous odd and depressing facts of American life today. Men who watch television now spend seven hours in front of the TV for every hour they spend hanging out with somebody outside their home. The typical female pet owner spends more time actively engaged with her pet than she spends in face-to-face contact with friends of her own species. Since the early 2000s, the amount of time that Americans say they spend helping or caring for people outside their nuclear family has declined by more than a third.

[Derek Thompson: Why Americans suddenly stopped hanging out]

Self-imposed solitude might just be the most important social fact of the 21st century in America. Perhaps unsurprisingly, many observers have reduced this phenomenon to the topic of loneliness. In 2023, Vivek Murthy, Joe Biden’s surgeon general, published an 81-page warning about America’s “epidemic of loneliness,” claiming that its negative health effects were on par with those of tobacco use and obesity. A growing number of public-health officials seem to regard loneliness as the developed world’s next critical public-health issue. The United Kingdom now has a minister for loneliness. So does Japan.

Max Guther

But solitude and loneliness are not one and the same. “It is actually a very healthy emotional response to feel some loneliness,” the NYU sociologist Eric Klinenberg told me. “That cue is the thing that pushes you off the couch and into face-to-face interaction.” The real problem here, the nature of America’s social crisis, is that most Americans don’t seem to be reacting to the biological cue to spend more time with other people. Their solitude levels are surging while many measures of loneliness are actually flat or dropping. A 2021 study of the widely used UCLA Loneliness Scale concluded that “the frequently used term ‘loneliness epidemic’ seems exaggerated.” Although young people are lonelier than they once were, there is little evidence that loneliness is rising more broadly today. A 2023 Gallup survey found that the share of Americans who said they experienced loneliness “a lot of the day yesterday” declined by roughly one-third from 2021 to 2023, even as alone time, by Atalay’s calculation, rose slightly.

Day to day, hour to hour, we are choosing this way of life—its comforts, its ready entertainments. But convenience can be a curse. Our habits are creating what Atalay has called a “century of solitude.” This is the anti-social century.

Over the past few months, I’ve spoken with psychologists, political scientists, sociologists, and technologists about America’s anti-social streak. Although the particulars of these conversations differed, a theme emerged: The individual preference for solitude, scaled up across society and exercised repeatedly over time, is rewiring America’s civic and psychic identity. And the consequences are far-reaching—for our happiness, our communities, our politics, and even our understanding of reality.

The End of the Social Century

The first half of the 20th century was extraordinarily social. From 1900 to 1960, church membership surged, as did labor-union participation. Marriage rates reached a record high after World War II, and the birth rate enjoyed a famous “boom.” Associations of all sorts thrived, including book clubs and volunteer groups. The New Deal made America’s branch-library system the envy of the world; communities and developers across the country built theaters, music venues, playgrounds, and all kinds of gathering places.

But in the 1970s, the U.S. entered an era of withdrawal, as the political scientist Robert D. Putnam famously documented in his 2000 book, Bowling Alone. Some institutions of togetherness, such as marriage, eroded slowly. Others fell away swiftly. From 1985 to 1994, active involvement in community organizations fell by nearly half. The decline was astonishingly broad, affecting just about every social activity and every demographic group that Putnam tracked.

What happened in the 1970s? Klinenberg, the sociologist, notes a shift in political priorities: The government dramatically slowed its construction of public spaces. “Places that used to anchor community life, like libraries and school gyms and union halls, have become less accessible or shuttered altogether,” he told me. Putnam points, among other things, to new moral values, such as the embrace of unbridled individualism. But he found that two of the most important factors were by then ubiquitous technologies: the automobile and the television set.

Starting in the second half of the century, Americans used their cars to move farther and farther away from one another, enabling the growth of the suburbs and, with it, a retreat into private backyard patios, private pools, a more private life. Once Americans got out of the car, they planted themselves in front of the television. From 1965 to 1995, the typical adult gained six hours a week in leisure time. They could have devoted that time—300 hours a year!—to community service, or pickup basketball, or reading, or knitting, or all four. Instead, they funneled almost all of this extra time into watching more TV.

Television transformed Americans’ interior decorating, our relationships, and our communities. In 1970, just 6 percent of sixth graders had a TV set in their bedroom; in 1999, that proportion had grown to 77 percent. Time diaries in the 1990s showed that husbands and wives spent almost four times as many hours watching TV together as they spent talking to each other in a given week. People who said TV was their “primary form of entertainment” were less likely to engage in practically every social activity that Putnam counted: volunteering, churchgoing, attending dinner parties, picnicking, giving blood, even sending greeting cards. Like a murder in Clue, the death of social connections in America had any number of suspects. But in the end, I believe the likeliest culprit is obvious. It was Mr. Farnsworth, in the living room, with the tube.

Phonebound

If two of the 20th century’s iconic technologies, the automobile and the television, initiated the rise of American aloneness, the 21st century’s most notorious piece of hardware has continued to fuel, and has indeed accelerated, our national anti-social streak. Countless books, articles, and cable-news segments have warned Americans that smartphones can negatively affect mental health and may be especially harmful to adolescents. But the fretful coverage is, if anything, restrained given how greatly these devices have changed our conscious experience. The typical person is awake for about 900 minutes a day. American kids and teenagers spend, on average, about 270 minutes on weekdays and 380 minutes on weekends gazing into their screens, according to the Digital Parenthood Initiative. By this account, screens occupy more than 30 percent of their waking life.

Some of this screen time is social, after a fashion. But sharing videos or texting friends is a pale imitation of face-to-face interaction. More worrisome than what young people do on their phone is what they aren’t doing. Young people are less likely than in previous decades to get their driver’s license, or to go on a date, or to have more than one close friend, or even to hang out with their friends at all. The share of boys and girls who say they meet up with friends almost daily outside school hours has declined by nearly 50 percent since the early 1990s, with the sharpest downturn occurring in the 2010s.

Max Guther

The decline of hanging out can’t be shrugged off as a benign generational change, something akin to a preference for bell-bottoms over skinny jeans. Human childhood—including adolescence—is a uniquely sensitive period in the whole of the animal kingdom, the psychologist Jonathan Haidt writes in The Anxious Generation. Although the human brain grows to 90 percent of its full size by age 5, its neural circuitry takes a long time to mature. Our lengthy childhood might be evolution’s way of scheduling an extended apprenticeship in social learning through play. The best kind of play is physical, outdoors, with other kids, and unsupervised, allowing children to press the limits of their abilities while figuring out how to manage conflict and tolerate pain. But now young people’s attention is funneled into devices that take them out of their body, denying them the physical-world education they need.

[Read: Jonathan Haidt on the terrible costs of a phone-based childhood]

Teen anxiety and depression are at near-record highs: The latest government survey of high schoolers, conducted in 2023, found that more than half of teen girls said they felt “persistently sad or hopeless.” These data are alarming, but shouldn’t be surprising. Young rats and monkeys deprived of play come away socially and emotionally impaired. It would be odd if we, the self-named “social animal,” were different.

Socially underdeveloped childhood leads, almost inexorably, to socially stunted adulthood. A popular trend on TikTok involves 20‑somethings celebrating in creative ways when a friend cancels plans, often because they’re too tired or anxious to leave the house. These clips can be goofy and even quite funny. Surely, sympathy is due; we all know the feeling of relief when we claw back free time in an overscheduled week. But the sheer number of videos is a bit unsettling. If anybody should feel lonely and desperate for physical-world contact, you’d think it would be 20-somethings, who are still recovering from years of pandemic cabin fever. But many nights, it seems, members of America’s most isolated generation aren’t trying to leave the house at all. They’re turning on their cameras to advertise to the world the joy of not hanging out.

If young adults feel overwhelmed by the emotional costs of physical-world togetherness—and prone to keeping even close friends at a physical distance—that suggests that phones aren’t just rewiring adolescence; they’re upending the psychology of friendship as well.

[From the September 2017 issue: Have smartphones destroyed a generation?]

In the 1960s, Irwin Altman, a psychologist at the Naval Medical Research Institute, in Bethesda, Maryland, co-developed a friendship formula characterized by increasing intimacy. In the early stages of friendship, people engage in small talk by sharing trivial details. As they develop trust, their conversations deepen to include more private information until disclosure becomes habitual and easy. Altman later added an important wrinkle: Friends require boundaries as much as they require closeness. Time alone to recharge is essential for maintaining healthy relationships.

Phones mean that solitude is more crowded than it used to be, and crowds are more solitary. “Bright lines once separated being alone and being in a crowd,” Nicholas Carr, the author of the new book Superbloom: How Technologies of Connection Tear Us Apart, told me. “Boundaries helped us. You could be present with your friends and reflective in your downtime.” Now our social time is haunted by the possibility that something more interesting is happening somewhere else, and our downtime is contaminated by the streams and posts and texts of dozens of friends, colleagues, frenemies, strangers.

[From the July/August 2008 issue: Nicholas Carr on whether Google is making us stupid]

If Carr is right, modern technology’s always-open window to the outside world makes recharging much harder, leaving many people chronically depleted, a walking battery that is always stuck in the red zone. In a healthy world, people who spend lots of time alone would feel that ancient biological cue: I’m alone and sad; I should make some plans. But we live in a sideways world, where easy home entertainment, oversharing online, and stunted social skills spark a strangely popular response: I’m alone, anxious, and exhausted; thank God my plans were canceled.

Homebound

Last year, the Princeton University sociologist Patrick Sharkey was working on a book about how places shape American lives and economic fortunes. He had a feeling that the rise of remote work might have accelerated a longer-term trend: a shift in the amount of time that people spend inside their home. He ran the numbers and discovered “an astounding change” in our daily habits, much more extreme than he would have guessed. In 2022—notably, after the pandemic had abated—adults spent an additional 99 minutes at home on any given day compared with 2003.

This finding formed the basis of a 2024 paper, “Homebound,” in which Sharkey calculated that, compared with 2003, Americans are more likely to take meetings from home, to shop from home, to be entertained at home, to eat at home, and even to worship at home. Practically the entire economy has reoriented itself to allow Americans to stay within their four walls. This phenomenon cannot be reduced to remote work. It is something far more totalizing—something more like “remote life.”

One might ask: Why wouldn’t Americans with means want to spend more time at home? In the past few decades, the typical American home has become bigger, more comfortable, and more entertaining. From 1973 to 2023, the size of the average new single-family house increased by 50 percent, and the share of new single-family houses that have air-conditioning doubled, to 98 percent. Streaming services, video-game consoles, and flatscreen TVs make the living room more diverting than any 20th-century theater or arcade. Yet conveniences can indeed be a curse. By Sharkey’s calculations, activities at home were associated with a “strong reduction” in self-reported happiness.

A homebound life doesn’t have to be a solitary life. In the 1970s, the typical household entertained more than once a month. But from the late 1970s to the late 1990s, the frequency of hosting friends for parties, games, dinners, and so on declined by 45 percent, according to data that Robert Putnam gathered. In the 20 years after Bowling Alone was published, the average amount of time that Americans spent hosting or attending social events declined another 32 percent.

As our homes have become less social, residential architecture has become more anti-social. Clifton Harness is a co-founder of TestFit, a firm that makes software to design layouts for new housing developments. He told me that the cardinal rule of contemporary apartment design is that every room is built to accommodate maximal screen time. “In design meetings with developers and architects, you have to assure everybody that there will be space for a wall-mounted flatscreen television in every room,” he said. “It used to be ‘Let’s make sure our rooms have great light.’ But now, when the question is ‘How do we give the most comfort to the most people?,’ the answer is to feed their screen addiction.” Bobby Fijan, a real-estate developer, said last year that “for the most part, apartments are built for Netflix and chill.” From studying floor plans, he noticed that bedrooms, walk-in closets, and other private spaces are growing. “I think we’re building for aloneness,” Fijan told me.

“Secular Monks”

In 2020, the philosopher and writer Andrew Taggart observed in an essay published in the religious journal First Things that a new flavor of masculinity seemed to be emerging: strong, obsessed with personal optimization, and proudly alone. Men and women alike have been delaying family formation; the median age at first marriage for men recently surpassed 30 for the first time in history. Taggart wrote that the men he knew seemed to be forgoing marriage and fatherhood with gusto. Instead of focusing their 30s and 40s on wedding bands and diapers, they were committed to working on their body, their bank account, and their meditation-sharpened minds. Taggart called these men “secular monks” for their combination of old-fashioned austerity and modern solipsism. “Practitioners submit themselves to ever more rigorous, monitored forms of ascetic self-control,” he wrote, “among them, cold showers, intermittent fasting, data-driven health optimization, and meditation boot camps.”

When I read Taggart’s essay last year, I felt a shock of recognition. In the previous months, I’d been captivated by a particular genre of social media: the viral “morning routine” video. If the protagonist is a man, he is typically handsome and rich. We see him wake up. We see him meditate. We see him write in his journal. We see him exercise, take supplements, take a cold plunge. What is most striking about these videos, however, is the element they typically lack: other people. In these little movies of a life well spent, the protagonists generally wake up alone and stay that way. We usually see no friends, no spouse, no children. These videos are advertisements for a luxurious form of modern monasticism that treats the presence of other people as, at best, an unwelcome distraction and, at worst, an unhealthy indulgence that is ideally avoided—like porn, perhaps, or Pop-Tarts.

[Read: The agony of texting with men]

Drawing major conclusions about modern masculinity from a handful of TikToks would be unwise. But the solitary man is not just a social-media phenomenon. Men spend more time alone than women, and young men are increasing their alone time faster than any other group, according to the American Time Use Survey.

Max Guther

Where is this alone time coming from? Liana C. Sayer, a sociologist at the University of Maryland, shared with me her analysis of how leisure time in the 21st century has changed for men and women. Sayer divided leisure into two broad categories: “engaged leisure,” which includes socializing, going to concerts, and playing sports; and “sedentary leisure,” which includes watching TV and playing video games. Compared with engaged leisure, which is more likely to be done with other people, sedentary leisure is more commonly done alone.

The most dramatic tendency that Sayer uncovered is that single men without kids—who have the most leisure time—are overwhelmingly likely to spend these hours by themselves. And the time they spend in solo sedentary leisure has increased, since 2003, more than that of any other group Sayer tracked. This is unfortunate because, as Sayer wrote, “well-being is higher among adults who spend larger shares of leisure with others.” Sedentary leisure, by contrast, was “associated with negative physical and mental health.”

Richard V. Reeves, the president of the American Institute for Boys and Men, told me that for men, as for women, something hard to define is lost when we pursue a life of isolationist comforts. He calls it “neededness”—the way we make ourselves essential to our families and community. “I think at some level, we all need to feel like we’re a jigsaw piece that’s going to fit into a jigsaw somewhere,” he said. This neededness can come in several forms: social, economic, or communitarian. Our children and partners can depend on us for care or income. Our colleagues can rely on us to finish a project, or to commiserate about an annoying boss. Our religious congregations and weekend poker parties can count on us to fill a pew or bring the dip.

But building these bridges to community takes energy, and today’s young men do not seem to be constructing these relationships in the same way that they used to. In place of neededness, despair is creeping in. Men who are un- or underemployed are especially vulnerable. Feeling unneeded “is actually, in some cases, literally fatal,” Reeves said. “If you look at the words that men use to describe themselves before they take their own lives, they are worthless and useless.” Since 2001, hundreds of thousands of men have died of drug overdoses, mostly from opioids and synthetics such as fentanyl. “If the level of drug-poisoning deaths had remained flat since 2001, we’d have had 400,000 fewer men die,” Reeves said. These drugs, he emphasized, are defined by their solitary nature: Opioids are not party drugs, but rather the opposite.

This Is Your Politics on Solitude

All of this time alone, at home, on the phone, is not just affecting us as individuals. It’s making society weaker, meaner, and more delusional. Marc J. Dunkelman, an author and a research fellow at Brown University, says that to see how chosen solitude is warping society at large, we must first acknowledge something a little counterintuitive: Today, many of our bonds are actually getting stronger.

Parents are spending more time with their children than they did several decades ago, and many couples and families maintain an unbroken flow of communication. “My wife and I have texted 10 times since we said goodbye today,” Dunkelman told me when I reached him at noon on a weekday. “When my 10-year-old daughter buys a Butterfinger at CVS, I get a phone notification about it.”

At the same time, messaging apps, TikTok streams, and subreddits keep us plugged into the thoughts and opinions of the global crowd that shares our interests. “When I watch a Cincinnati Bengals football game, I’m on a group text with beat reporters to whom I can ask questions, and they’ll respond,” Dunkelman said. “I can follow the live thoughts of football analysts on X.com, so that I’m practically watching the game over their shoulder. I live in Rhode Island, and those are connections that could have never existed 30 years ago.”

Home-based, phone-based culture has arguably solidified our closest and most distant connections, the inner ring of family and best friends (bound by blood and intimacy) and the outer ring of tribe (linked by shared affinities). But it’s wreaking havoc on the middle ring of “familiar but not intimate” relationships with the people who live around us, which Dunkelman calls the village. “These are your neighbors, the people in your town,” he said. We used to know them well; now we don’t.

The middle ring is key to social cohesion, Dunkelman said. Families teach us love, and tribes teach us loyalty. The village teaches us tolerance. Imagine that a local parent disagrees with you about affirmative action at a PTA meeting. Online, you might write him off as a political opponent who deserves your scorn. But in a school gym full of neighbors, you bite your tongue. As the year rolls on, you discover that your daughters are in the same dance class. At pickup, you swap stories about caring for aging relatives. Although your differences don’t disappear, they’re folded into a peaceful coexistence. And when the two of you sign up for a committee to draft a diversity statement for the school, you find that you can accommodate each other’s opposing views. “It’s politically moderating to meet thoughtful people in the real world who disagree with you,” Dunkelman said. But if PTA meetings are still frequently held in person, many other opportunities to meet and understand one’s neighbors are becoming a thing of the past. “An important implication of the death of the middle ring is that if you have no appreciation for why the other side has their narrative, you’ll want your own side to fight them without compromise.”

The village is our best arena for practicing productive disagreement and compromise—in other words, democracy. So it’s no surprise that the erosion of the village has coincided with the emergence of a grotesque style of politics, in which every election feels like an existential quest to vanquish an intramural enemy. For the past five decades, the American National Election Studies surveys have asked Democrats and Republicans to rate the opposing party on a “Feeling Thermometer” that ranges from zero (very cold/unfavorable) to 100 (very warm/favorable). In 2000, just 8 percent of partisans gave the other party a zero. By 2020, that figure had shot up to 40 percent. In a 2021 poll by Generation Lab/Axios, nearly a third of college students who identify as Republican said they wouldn’t even go on a date with a Democrat, and more than two-thirds of Democratic students said the same of members of the GOP.

Donald Trump’s victory in the 2024 presidential election had many causes, including inflation and frustration with Joe Biden’s leadership. But one source of Trump’s success may be that he is an avatar of the all-tribe, no-village style of performative confrontation. He stokes out-group animosity, and speaks to voters who are furiously intolerant of political difference. To cite just a few examples from the campaign, Trump called Democrats “enemies of the democracy” and the news media “enemies of the people,” and promised to “root out” the “radical-left thugs that live like vermin within the confines of our country, that lie and steal and cheat on elections.”

Max Guther

Social disconnection also helps explain progressives’ stubborn inability to understand Trump’s appeal. In the fall, one popular Democratic lawn sign read Harris Walz: Obviously. That sentiment, rejected by a majority of voters, indicates a failure to engage with the world as it really is. Dunkelman emailed me after the election to lament Democratic cluelessness. “How did those of us who live in elite circles not see how Trump was gaining popularity even among our literal neighbors?” he wrote. Too many progressives were mainlining left-wing media in the privacy of their home, oblivious that families down the street were drifting right. Even in the highly progressive borough of Brooklyn, New York, three in 10 voters chose Trump. If progressives still consider MAGA an alien movement, it is in part because they have made themselves strangers in their own land.

Practicing politics alone, on the internet, rather than in community isn’t only making us more likely to demonize and alienate our opponents, though that would be bad enough. It may also be encouraging deep nihilism. In 2018, a group of researchers led by Michael Bang Petersen, a Danish political scientist, began asking Americans to evaluate false rumors about Democratic and Republican politicians, including Trump and Hillary Clinton. “We were expecting a clear pattern of polarization,” Petersen told me, with people on the left sharing conspiracies about the right and vice versa. But some participants seemed drawn to any conspiracy theory so long as it was intended to destroy the established order. Members of this cohort commonly harbored racial or economic grievances. Perhaps more important, Petersen said, they tended to feel socially isolated. These aggravated loners agreed with many dark pronouncements, such as “I need chaos around me” and “When I think about our political and social institutions, I cannot help thinking ‘just let them all burn.’ ” Petersen and his colleagues coined a term to describe this cohort’s motivation: the need for chaos.

[Read: Derek Thompson on the Americans who need chaos]

Although chaotically inclined individuals score highly in a popular measure for loneliness, they don’t seem to seek the obvious remedy. “What they’re reaching out to get isn’t friendship at all but rather recognition and status,” Petersen said. For many socially isolated men in particular, for whom reality consists primarily of glowing screens in empty rooms, a vote for destruction is a politics of last resort—a way to leave one’s mark on a world where collective progress, or collective support of any kind, feels impossible.

The Introversion Delusion

Let us be fair to solitude, for a moment. As the father of a young child, I know well that a quiet night alone can be a balm. I have spent evenings alone at a bar, watching a baseball game, that felt ecstatically close to heaven. People cope with stress and grief and mundane disappointment in complex ways, and sometimes isolation is the best way to restore inner equilibrium.

But the dosage matters. A night alone away from a crying baby is one thing. A decade or more of chronic social disconnection is something else entirely. And people who spend more time alone, year after year, become meaningfully less happy. In his 2023 paper on the rise of 21st-century solitude, Atalay, at the Philadelphia Fed, calculated that by one measure, sociability means considerably more for happiness than money does: A five-percentage-point increase in alone time was associated with about the same decline in life satisfaction as was a 10 percent lower household income.

Max Guther

Nonetheless, many people keep choosing to spend free time alone, in their home, away from other people. Perhaps, one might think, they are making the right choice; after all, they must know themselves best. But a consistent finding of modern psychology is that people often don’t know what they want, or what will make them happy. The saying that “predictions are hard, especially about the future” applies with special weight to predictions about our own life. Time and again, what we expect to bring us peace—a bigger house, a luxury car, a job with twice the pay but half the leisure—only creates more anxiety. And at the top of this pile of things we mistakenly believe we want, there is aloneness.

[From the May 2012 issue: Is Facebook making us lonely?]

Several years ago, Nick Epley, a psychologist at the University of Chicago’s Booth School of Business, asked commuter-train passengers to make a prediction: How would they feel if asked to spend the ride talking with a stranger? Most participants predicted that quiet solitude would make for a better commute than having a long chat with someone they didn’t know. Then Epley’s team created an experiment in which some people were asked to keep to themselves, while others were instructed to talk with a stranger (“The longer the conversation, the better,” participants were told). Afterward, people filled out a questionnaire. How did they feel? Despite the broad assumption that the best commute is a silent one, the people instructed to talk with strangers actually reported feeling significantly more positive than those who’d kept to themselves. “A fundamental paradox at the core of human life is that we are highly social and made better in every way by being around people,” Epley said. “And yet over and over, we have opportunities to connect that we don’t take, or even actively reject, and it is a terrible mistake.”

Researchers have repeatedly validated Epley’s discovery. In 2020, the psychologists Seth Margolis and Sonja Lyubomirsky, at UC Riverside, asked people to behave like an extrovert for one week and like an introvert for another. Subjects received several reminders to act “assertive” and “spontaneous” or “quiet” and “reserved” depending on the week’s theme. Participants said they felt more positive emotions at the end of the extroversion week and more negative emotions at the end of the introversion week. Our modern economy, with its home-delivery conveniences, manipulates people into behaving like agoraphobes. But it turns out that we can be manipulated in the opposite direction. And we might be happier for it.

Our “mistaken” preference for solitude could emerge from a misplaced anxiety that other people aren’t that interested in talking with us, or that they would find our company bothersome. “But in reality,” Epley told me, “social interaction is not very uncertain, because of the principle of reciprocity. If you say hello to someone, they’ll typically say hello back to you. If you give somebody a compliment, they’ll typically say thank you.” Many people, it seems, are not social enough for their own good. They too often seek comfort in solitude, when they would actually find joy in connection.

Despite a consumer economy that seems optimized for introverted behavior, we would have happier days, years, and lives if we resisted the undertow of the convenience curse—if we talked with more strangers, belonged to more groups, and left the house for more activities.

The AI Century

The anti-social century has been bad enough: more anxiety and depression; more “need for chaos” in our politics. But I’m sorry to say that our collective detachment could still get worse. Or, to be more precise, weirder.

In May of last year, three employees of OpenAI, the artificial-intelligence company, sat onstage to introduce ChatGPT’s new real-time conversational-speech feature. A research scientist named Mark Chen held up a phone and, smiling, started speaking to it.

“Hey, ChatGPT, I’m Mark. How are you?” Mark said.

“Hello, Mark!” a cheery female voice responded.

“Hey, so I’m onstage right now,” Mark said. “I’m doing a live demo, and frankly I’m feeling a little bit nervous. Can you help me calm my nerves a little bit?”

“Oh, you’re doing a live demo right now?” the voice replied, projecting astonishment with eerie verisimilitude. “That’s awesome! Just take a deep breath and remember: You’re the expert here.”

Mark asked for feedback on his breathing, before panting loudly, like someone who’d just finished a marathon.

“Whoa, slow!” the voice responded. “Mark, you’re not a vacuum cleaner!” Out of frame, the audience laughed. Mark tried breathing audibly again, this time more slowly and deliberately.

“That’s it,” the AI responded. “How do you feel?”

“I feel a lot better,” Mark said. “Thank you so much.”

AI’s ability to speak naturally might seem like an incremental update, as subtle as a camera-lens refinement on a new iPhone. But according to Nick Epley, fluent speech represents a radical advancement in the technology’s ability to encroach on human relationships.

“Once an AI can speak to you, it’ll feel extremely real,” he said, because people process spoken word more intimately and emotionally than they process text. For a study published in 2020, Epley and Amit Kumar, a psychologist at the University of Texas at Austin, randomly assigned participants to contact an old friend via phone or email. Most people said they preferred to send a written message. But those instructed to talk on the phone reported feeling “a significantly stronger bond” with their friend, and a stronger sense that they’d “really connected,” than those who used email.

Speech is rich with what are known as “paralinguistic cues,” such as emphasis and intonation, which can build sympathy and trust in the minds of listeners. In another study, Epley and the behavioral scientist Juliana Schroeder found that employers and potential recruiters were more likely to rate candidates as “more competent, thoughtful, and intelligent” when they heard a why-I’m-right-for-this-job pitch rather than read it.

Even now, before AI has mastered fluent speech, millions of people are already forming intimate relationships with machines, according to Jason Fagone, a journalist who is writing a book about the emergence of AI companions. Character.ai, the most popular platform for AI companions, has tens of millions of monthly users, who spend an average of 93 minutes a day chatting with their AI friend. “No one is getting duped into thinking they’re actually talking to humans,” Fagone told me. “People are freely choosing to enter relationships with artificial partners, and they’re getting deeply attached anyway, because of the emotional capabilities of these systems.” One subject in his book is a young man who, after his fiancée’s death, engineers an AI chatbot to resemble his deceased partner. Another is a bisexual mother who supplements her marriage to a man with an AI that identifies as a woman.

If you find the notion of emotional intercourse with an immaterial entity creepy, consider the many friends and family members who exist in your life mainly as words on a screen. Digital communication has already prepared us for AI companionship, Fagone said, by transforming many of our physical-world relationships into a sequence of text chimes and blue bubbles. “I think part of why AI-companion apps have proven so seductive so quickly is that most of our relationships already happen exclusively through the phone,” he said.

Epley sees the exponential growth of AI companions as a real possibility. “You can set them up to never criticize you, never cheat on you, never have a bad day and insult you, and to always be interested in you.” Unlike the most patient spouses, they could tell us that we’re always right. Unlike the world’s best friend, they could instantly respond to our needs without the all-too-human distraction of having to lead their own life.

“The horrifying part, of course, is that learning how to interact with real human beings who can disagree with you and disappoint you” is essential to living in the world, Epley said. I think he’s right. But Epley was born in the 1970s. I was born in the 1980s. People born in the 2010s, or the 2020s, might not agree with us about the irreplaceability of “real human” friends. These generations may discover that what they want most from their relationships is not a set of people, who might challenge them, but rather a set of feelings—sympathy, humor, validation—that can be more reliably drawn out from silicon than from carbon-based life forms. Long before technologists build a superintelligent machine that can do the work of so many Einsteins, they may build an emotionally sophisticated one that can do the work of so many friends.

The Next 15 Minutes

The anti-social century is as much a result of what’s happened to the exterior world of concrete and steel as it is about advances inside our phones. The decline of government investments in what Eric Klinenberg calls “social infrastructure”—public spaces that shape our relationship to the world—may have begun in the latter part of the 20th century, but it has continued in the 21st. That has arguably affected nearly everyone, but less advantaged Americans most of all.

“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gone to poor neighborhoods in big cities, and the community leaders tell me the real crisis for poor teenagers is that there’s just not much for them to do anymore, and nowhere to go,” Klinenberg told me. “I’d like to see the government build social infrastructure for teenagers with the creativity and generosity with which video-game companies build the toys that keep them inside. I’m thinking of athletic fields, and public swimming pools, and libraries with beautiful social areas for young people to hang out together.”

Improved public social infrastructure would not solve all the problems of the anti-social century. But degraded public spaces—and degraded public life—are in some ways the other side of all our investments in video games and phones and bigger, better private space. Just as we needed time to see the invisible emissions of the Industrial Revolution, we are only now coming to grips with the negative externalities of a phonebound and homebound world. The media theorist Marshall McLuhan once said of technology that every augmentation is also an amputation. We chose our digitally enhanced world. We did not realize the significance of what was being amputated.

Max Guther

But we can choose differently. In his 2015 novel, Seveneves, Neal Stephenson coined the term Amistics to describe the practice of carefully selecting which technologies to accept. The word is a reference to the Amish, who generally shun many modern innovations, including cars and television. Although they are sometimes considered strictly anti-modern, many Amish communities have refrigerators and washing machines, and some use solar power. Instead of dismissing all technology, the Amish adopt only those innovations that support their religious and communal values. In his 1998 dissertation on one Amish community, Tay Keong Tan, then a Ph.D. candidate at Harvard, quoted a community member as saying that they didn’t want to adopt TV or radio, because those products “would destroy our visiting practices. We would stay at home with the television or radio rather than meet with other people.”

If the Amish approach to technology is radical in its application, it recognizes something plain and true: Although technology does not have values of its own, its adoption can create values, even in the absence of a coordinated effort. For decades, we’ve adopted whatever technologies removed friction or increased dopamine, embracing what makes life feel easy and good in the moment. But dopamine is a chemical, not a virtue. And what’s easy is not always what’s best for us. We should ask ourselves: What would it mean to select technology based on long-term health rather than instant gratification? And if technology is hurting our community, what can we do to heal it?

A seemingly straightforward prescription is that teenagers should choose to spend less time on their phone, and their parents should choose to invite more friends over for dinner. But in a way, these are collective-action problems. A teenager is more likely to get out of the house if his classmates have already made a habit of hanging out. That teen’s parents are more likely to host if their neighbors have also made a habit of weekly gatherings. There is a word for such deeply etched communal habits: rituals. And one reason, perhaps, that the decline of socializing has synchronized with the decline of religion is that nothing has proved as adept at inscribing ritual into our calendars as faith.

“I have a view that is uncommon among social scientists, which is that moral revolutions are real and they change our culture,” Robert Putnam told me. In the early 20th century, a group of liberal Christians, including the pastor Walter Rauschenbusch, urged other Christians to expand their faith from a narrow concern for personal salvation to a public concern for justice. Their movement, which became known as the Social Gospel, was instrumental in passing major political reforms, such as the abolition of child labor. It also encouraged a more communitarian approach to American life, which manifested in an array of entirely secular congregations that met in union halls and community centers and dining rooms. All of this came out of a particular alchemy of writing and thinking and organizing. No one can say precisely how to change a nation’s moral-emotional atmosphere, but what’s certain is that atmospheres do change. Our smallest actions create norms. Our norms create values. Our values drive behavior. And our behaviors cascade.

The anti-social century is the result of one such cascade, of chosen solitude, accelerated by digital-world progress and physical-world regress. But if one cascade brought us into an anti-social century, another can bring about a social century. New norms are possible; they’re being created all the time. Independent bookstores are booming—the American Booksellers Association has reported more than 50 percent growth since 2009—and in cities such as New York City and Washington, D.C., many of them have become miniature theaters, with regular standing-room-only crowds gathered for author readings. More districts and states are banning smartphones in schools, a national experiment that could, optimistically, improve children’s focus and their physical-world relationships. In the past few years, board-game cafés have flowered across the country, and their business is expected to nearly double by 2030. These cafés buck an 80-year trend. Instead of turning a previously social form of entertainment into a private one, they turn a living-room pastime into a destination activity. As sweeping as the social revolution I’ve described might seem, it’s built from the ground up by institutions and decisions that are profoundly within our control: as humble as a café, as small as a new phone locker at school.

When Epley and his lab asked Chicagoans to overcome their preference for solitude and talk with strangers on a train, the experiment probably didn’t change anyone’s life. All it did was marginally improve the experience of one 15-minute block of time. But life is just a long set of 15-minute blocks, one after another. The way we spend our minutes is the way we spend our decades. “No amount of research that I’ve done has changed my life more than this,” Epley told me. “It’s not that I’m never lonely. It’s that my moment-to-moment experience of life is better, because I’ve learned to take the dead space of life and make friends in it.”

This article appears in the February 2025 print edition with the headline “The Anti-Social Century.”