One week ago, a new and formidable challenger for OpenAI’s throne emerged. A Chinese AI start-up, DeepSeek, launched a model that appeared to match the most powerful version of ChatGPT—but, at least according to its creator, was a fraction of the cost to build. The program, called DeepSeek-R1, has incited plenty of concern: Ultrapowerful Chinese AI models are exactly what many leaders of American AI companies feared when they, and more recently President Donald Trump, have sounded alarms about a technological race between the United States and the People’s Republic of China. This is a “wake up call for America,” Alexandr Wang, the CEO of Scale AI, commented on social media.

But at the same time, many Americans—including much of the tech industry—appear to be lauding this Chinese AI. As of this morning, DeepSeek had overtaken ChatGPT as the top free application on Apple’s mobile-app store in the U.S. Researchers, executives, and investors have been heaping on praise. The new DeepSeek model “is one of the most amazing and impressive breakthroughs I’ve ever seen,” the venture capitalist Marc Andreessen, an outspoken supporter of Trump, wrote on X. The program shows “the power of open research,” Yann LeCun, Meta’s chief AI scientist, wrote online.

Indeed, the most notable feature of DeepSeek may be not that it is Chinese, but that it is relatively open. Unlike top American AI labs—OpenAI, Anthropic, and Google DeepMind—which keep their research almost entirely under wraps, DeepSeek has made the program’s final code, as well as an in-depth technical explanation of the program, free to view, download, and modify. In other words, anybody from any country, including the U.S., can use, adapt, and even improve upon the program. That openness makes DeepSeek a boon for American start-ups and researchers—and an even bigger threat to the top U.S. companies, as well as the government’s national-security interests.

To understand what’s so impressive about DeepSeek, one has to look back to December, when OpenAI launched its own technical breakthrough: the full release of o1, a new kind of AI model that, unlike all the “GPT”-style programs before it, appears able to “reason” through challenging problems. o1 displayed leaps in performance on some of the most challenging math, coding, and other tests available, and sent the rest of the AI industry scrambling to replicate the new reasoning model—which OpenAI disclosed very few technical details about. The start-up, and thus the American AI industry, were on top. (The Atlantic recently entered into a corporate partnership with OpenAI.)

DeepSeek, less than two months later, not only exhibits those same “reasoning” capabilities apparently at much lower costs, but has spilled at least one way to match OpenAI’s more covert methods to the rest of the world. The program is not entirely open-source—its training data, for instance, and the fine details of its creation are not public—but, unlike with ChatGPT, Claude, or Gemini, researchers and start-ups can still study the DeepSearch research paper and directly work with its code. OpenAI has enormous amounts of capital, computer chips, and other resources, and has been working on AI for a decade. In comparison, DeepSeek is a smaller team formed two years ago with far less access to essential AI hardware, because of U.S. export controls on advanced AI chips, but it has relied on various software and efficiency improvements to catch up. DeepSeek has reported that the final training run of a previous iteration of the model that R1 is built from, released in December, cost less than $6 million. Meanwhile, Dario Amodei, the CEO of Anthropic, has said that U.S. companies are already spending on the order of $1 billion to train future models. Exactly how much the latest DeepSeek cost to build is uncertain—some researchers and executives, including Wang, have cast doubt on just how cheap it could have been—but the price for software developers to incorporate DeepSeek-R1 into their own products is roughly 95 percent cheaper than incorporating OpenAI’s o1, as measured by the price of every “token”—basically, every word—the model generates.

DeepSeek’s success has abruptly forced a wedge between Americans most directly invested in outcompeting China and those who benefit from any access to the best, most reliable AI models. (It’s a divide that echoes Americans’ attitudes about TikTok—China hawks versus content creators—and China’s other apps and platforms.) For the start-up and research community, DeepSeek is an enormous win. “A non-US company is keeping the original mission of OpenAI alive,” Jim Fan, a top AI researcher at the chipmaker Nvidia and former OpenAI employee, wrote on X. “Truly open, frontier research that empowers all.”

But for America’s top AI companies, and the nation’s government, what DeepSeek represents is unclear. The stocks of many major tech firms—including Nvidia, Alphabet, and Microsoft—dropped this morning amid the excitement around the Chinese model. And Meta, which has branded itself as a champion of open-source models in contrast to OpenAI, now seems a step behind. (The company is reportedly panicking.) To some investors, all those massive data centers, billions of dollars of investment, or even the half-a-trillion-dollar AI-infrastructure joint venture from OpenAI, Oracle, and SoftBank, which Trump recently announced from the White House, could seem far less essential. Maybe bigger AI isn’t better. For those who fear that AI will strengthen “the Chinese Communist Party’s global influence,” as OpenAI wrote in a recent lobbying document, this is legitimately concerning: The DeepSeek app refuses to answer questions about, for instance, the Tiananmen Square protests and massacre of 1989 (although the censorship may be relatively easy to circumvent).

None of that is to say the AI boom is over, or will take a radically different form going forward. The next iteration of OpenAI’s reasoning models, o3, appears far more powerful than o1 and will soon be available to the public. There are some signs that DeepSeek trained on ChatGPT outputs (outputting “I’m ChatGPT” when asked what model it is), although perhaps not intentionally—if that’s the case, it’s possible that DeepSeek could only get a head start thanks to other high-quality chatbots. America’s AI innovation is accelerating, and its major forms are beginning to take on a technical research focus other than reasoning: “agents,” or AI systems that can use computers on behalf of humans. American tech giants could, in the end, even benefit. Satya Nadella, the CEO of Microsoft, framed DeepSeek as a win: More efficient AI means that use of AI across the board will “skyrocket, turning it into a commodity we just can’t get enough of,” he wrote on X today—which, if true, would help Microsoft’s profits as well.

Still, the pressure is on OpenAI, Google, and their competitors to maintain their edge. With the release of DeepSeek, the nature of any U.S.-China AI “arms race” has shifted. Preventing AI computer chips and code from spreading to China evidently has not tamped the ability of researchers and companies located there to innovate. And the relatively transparent, publicly available version of DeepSeek, rather than leading American programs, could mean Chinese programs and approaches become global technological standards for AI—akin to how the open-source Linux operating system is now standard for major web servers and supercomputers. Being democratic—in the sense of vesting power in software developers and users—is precisely what has made DeepSeek a success. If Chinese AI maintains its transparency and accessibility, despite emerging from an authoritarian regime whose citizens can’t even freely use the web, it is moving in exactly the opposite direction of where America’s tech industry is heading.

This is Atlantic Intelligence, a newsletter in which our writers help you wrap your mind around artificial intelligence and a new machine age. Sign up here.

Earlier this week, Donald Trump unveiled perhaps the most ambitious infrastructure project in history—one that may rival the costs of the first moon missions—and all but dedicated it to Sam Altman. The project, known as Stargate, is a joint venture between OpenAI, Oracle, SoftBank, and several other corporate partners that aims to invest $500 billion over the next four years in America’s AI infrastructure: data centers, energy plants, power lines, and everything else needed to develop superintelligent computer programs. The first data center, already under construction, will soon be dedicated to training OpenAI’s next models.

The Stargate Project is a resounding victory for a start-up that was struggling at the end of last year, as Karen Hao wrote for The Atlantic yesterday. OpenAI had lost some of its most talented staff; its relationship with its most important financial backer, Microsoft, was under stress; and it was weathering any number of other public controversies. This week’s announcement, meanwhile, “reduces OpenAI’s dependence on Microsoft, grants OpenAI (rather than its competitors) a mind-boggling sum of capital for computer chips—the hottest commodity in the AI race—and ties the company to Trump’s ‘America First’ agenda,” Hao wrote.

The announcement is the capstone to a steady maneuver by Altman to align himself with the incoming administration, another “masterful display of Altman’s power” to ingratiate himself with the powerful and raise huge amounts of capital, Hao noted. Altman, along with executives from Oracle and SoftBank, stood beside Trump in the White House as he made the announcement. “I’m thrilled we get to do this in the United States,” Altman said.

Illustration by The Atlantic. Sources: Getty.

OpenAI Goes MAGA

By Karen Hao

Things were not looking great for OpenAI at the end of last year. The company had been struggling with major delays on its long-awaited GPT-5 and hemorrhaging key talent—notably, Chief Scientist Ilya Sutskever, Chief Technology Officer Mira Murati, and Alec Radford, the researcher who’d set the company on the path of developing GPTs in the first place. Several people who left either joined OpenAI competitors or launched new ones. The start-up’s relationship with Microsoft, its biggest backer and a crucial provider of the computing infrastructure needed to train and deploy its AI models, was being investigated by the Federal Trade Commission.

And then there was Elon Musk. He’d co-founded OpenAI with Sam Altman and others, but the two had become fierce rivals. As “first buddy” to Donald Trump, Musk was suing OpenAI while rapidly building up his own AI venture, xAI, whose chatbot, Grok, has become a central feature on X. Amid all of this drama, Altman was notified by his sister, Annie, that she intended to sue him; she alleges that he sexually abused her when she was a child. (That lawsuit was filed at the start of this month; Altman and members of his family strongly denied the allegations through a statement posted on X.)

Read the full article.

What to Read Next

Sam Altman doesn’t actually need Trump: As I noted on Wednesday, the Stargate Project felt more like a display of weakness from Trump. These companies could have gone elsewhere; AI’s rapid development would have continued with or without Stargate, and under Trump or a President Kamala Harris. “Only a day into his presidency, Stargate showed Trump taking cues from China, Microsoft, OpenAI, and Biden all at once—from a foreign adversary, the tech giants he vilified in 2020, and a political rival he has ruthlessly vilified,” I wrote. OpenAI takes off its mask: “For the first time, OpenAI’s public structure and leadership are simply honest reflections of what the company has been—in effect, the will of a single person,” Hao wrote last fall.

P.S.

Of course, Altman wasn’t the only one cozying up to Trump this week. At his inauguration, tech titans whose tools collectively touch billions of lives—including Mark Zuckerberg, Jeff Bezos, Tim Cook, and Elon Musk—stood right beside Trump’s family. “The tech industry has officially placed itself in the palm of Trump’s hand,” Atlantic senior editor Damon Beres wrote on Monday.

— Matteo

This is an edition of The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here.

Welcome to The Daily’s culture edition, in which one Atlantic writer or editor reveals what’s keeping them entertained. Today’s special guest is Shayla Love, a staff writer who has written about how sobriety became a tool of self-optimization, the ways invisible habits are driving our lives, and how RFK Jr. is seducing America with wellness.

Shayla’s recommendations include a 1967 British television series that starts out like The Good Place, a “Page Six–esque thriller” about the Sigmund Freud Archives, and an “eclipse-viewing” experience that takes place entirely indoors.

The Culture Survey: Shayla Love

The television show I’m most enjoying right now: The 1967 British television series The Prisoner starts out remarkably similar to The Good Place: A person wakes up in an idyllic town that caters to their every need and also torments them. But in The Prisoner, Patrick McGoohan, the show’s creator and star, isn’t dead; he’s a retired British intelligence agent called Number 6 who refuses to submit to the will of the “Village.” He is put through a series of surreal and futuristic tests by a rotating cast of characters named Number 2 while trying not to be killed by a murderous white bouncing ball. A perfect low-stakes, high-octane episodic mystery. And who is Number 1?

A painting, sculpture, or other piece of visual art that I cherish: The best eclipse I saw last year was not the solar eclipse in April but the Instant Eclipse at Novelty Automation in London. For a few coins, you shut yourself inside a broom-closet-size box, look up, and experience an automated eclipse—no path of totality required. It was made in 1999 by Tim Hunkin, an engineer and artist who created dozens of strange and ingenious arcade machines. When I crammed into the contraption with my boyfriend, we heard audio of a noisy crowd that abruptly silenced when the “sun” vanished. We were surprised by how much wonder we felt as the artificial sky lit up with stars. [Related: The most dazzling eclipse in the universe]

Best novel I’ve recently read, and the best work of nonfiction: In the Freud Archives is Janet Malcolm at her best. She turns academic drama into a Page Six–esque thriller that you won’t be able to put down. And just when you think the ride is over, there’s a stunning afterword in the NYRB edition that takes you through the messy aftermath of her reporting.

Three Summers by Margarita Liberaki is my fiction pick. Read this book if you have sisters, if you’ve ever been crushed by a crush, if you have authority problems, or if you feel overwhelmed by a family’s capacity for secrets.

The last museum or gallery show that I loved: To see Pink Mist (Space Division) by James Turrell, you have to wait. You walk into a completely dark room, hands outstretched, blindly searching for a bench. You sit, feeling lost, staring into pitch black. Then, it appears: a pinkish-red rectangle hovering in front of you. The shape doesn’t move or change colors, but it’s a successful optical trick; it changes you. Once your eyes have adjusted, you can’t unsee it. All of the pieces in the Turrell retrospective at the Massachusetts Museum of Contemporary Art toy with both your perception and your patience.

Something I recently revisited: I rewatched the entire Canadian sci-fi series Orphan Black with my boyfriend, who had never seen it before. I realized how much this show is a part of my DNA—biomedical patents, an utopian island, longevity, nature versus nurture. Tatiana Maslany plays a handful of characters you’ll be convinced are different people by the end. [Related: The slow creep of uncanny television]

A favorite story I’ve read in The Atlantic: “The Nitrous Oxide Philosopher,” written in 1996 by Dmitri Tymoczko. I’ve returned to this piece dozens of times. The psychologist William James’s interest in altered states of consciousness through nitrous oxide is well known, yet this piece chronicles the lesser-known story of the rogue autodidact philosopher and mystic Benjamin Paul Blood, who inspired James. An Atlantic classic that is still relevant when thinking about drugs and their role in meaning-making or religious belief.

A poem, or line of poetry, that I return to: Robert Hass’s translations of three great Japanese haiku poets: Matsuo Bashō, Yosa Buson, and Kobayashi Issa. Hass has so few words to work with, and he picks exactly the right ones.

Like his verb choice in this Bashō haiku:

         A bee
staggers out
        of the peony.

Or how he preserves the humor and lightness of Issa:

        Even with insects—
some can sing,
       some can’t.

Two more, the first from Bashō, the next from Issa, to celebrate the end and start of a year:

         What fish feel,
birds feel, I don’t know—
        the year ending.

           New Year’s Day—
everything is in blossom!
          I feel about average.

Here are three new stories from The Atlantic:

Amanda Knox: “My last trial” Evangelicals made a bad trade. Jonathan Chait: There is no resistance.

Today’s News

During a tour of North Carolina to survey the damage of Hurricane Helene, President Donald Trump described plans to overhaul or eliminate FEMA. He proposed an alternative scenario in which the federal government pays “a percentage to the state” to aid in disaster response. Hundreds of undocumented immigrants, including those who have been convicted of crimes, were flown out of the country last night on military aircraft, according to the White House. The Senate plans to vote later this evening on whether to confirm Pete Hegseth as defense secretary.

Dispatches

Atlantic Intelligence: Earlier this week, Trump unveiled perhaps the most ambitious infrastructure project in history—and all but dedicated it to Sam Altman, Matteo Wong writes. The Books Briefing: Boris Kachka suggests what to read in the face of disaster.

Explore all of our newsletters here.

Evening Read

Illustration by Akshita Chandra / The Atlantic. Source: Getty.

January 6ers Got Out of Prison—And Came to My Neighborhood

By Hanna Rosin

On Monday, Stewart Rhodes, the eye-patched founder of the far-right militia known as the Oath Keepers, was in prison, which is where he has been since he was convicted of seditious conspiracy for his role in the January 6 attack on the U.S. Capitol. By Tuesday afternoon, he was taking a nap at my neighbors’ house.

Read the full article.

More From The Atlantic

Who will stop the militias now? Eric Adams’s totally predictable MAGA turn What the fires revealed about Los Angeles culture

Culture Break

Simon Mein / Thin Man Films Ltd / Bleecker Street

Debate. Have we been thinking about loneliness all wrong? Americans may not feel any more desolate than they did in the past, Faith Hill writes.

Watch. Hard Truths (out now in theaters) takes an astonishingly sensitive approach in telling the story of difficult people, Shirley Li writes.

Play our daily crossword.

When you buy a book using a link in this newsletter, we receive a commission. Thank you for supporting The Atlantic.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that America’s continental shelf couldn’t get any bigger. It is, after all, mostly rock, the submerged landmass linking shore and abyss. But in late 2023, after a long and expensive mapping project, the State Department announced that the continental shelf had grown by 1 million square kilometers—more than two Californias.

The United States had ample motive to decide that the continental shelf extends farther than it had previously realized. A larger shelf means legal access to more of the ocean floor’s riches: animals, hydrocarbons, and, perhaps most important, minerals to power electric-vehicle batteries. America has no immediate plans to excavate its new seabed, which includes chunks of the Arctic Ocean, Bering Sea, and Atlantic, as well as several small pockets of the Gulf of Mexico and the Pacific. But, according to the State Department, the combined area could be worth trillions of dollars.

The announcement shows just how shrewdly the U.S. has gamed the international system. Since 1982, a United Nations agreement called the Law of the Sea has served as the cornerstone of the global maritime order. In its expansion project, the U.S. abided by the treaty’s rules dictating how nations can extend their shelves—but, notably, it never ratified the agreement, which means that unlike the 169 nations that did, it doesn’t have to pay royalties on the resources it extracts. Apparently America can have its cake and eat it, too: a brand-new shelf, acquired in seemingly good order, that it can mine for free. This gold rush in the making can be seen as the culmination of a long national bet that even though America helped create the global maritime order, it’s better off not joining.

America’s undersea enlargement would not have been possible without Larry Mayer. An oceanographer at the University of New Hampshire, Mayer began the U.S. government’s largest-ever offshore-mapping effort in 2003. Over the next 20 years, he led a team of scientists that dragged sensors across America’s neighboring oceans, scanning more than 1 million square miles of seabed. “When you do that at nine miles an hour, it takes time,” Mayer told me. The project logged more than three years afloat, “a lot of it in the Arctic, which takes even more time because we’ve got to break ice.”

[From the January/February 2020 issue: History’s largest mining operation is about to begin]

Forty voyages and more than $100 million later, Mayer returned with four terabytes of data, which State Department officials plugged into formulas laid out by the treaty. “Not all countries have the ability to hire Larry Mayer and the scientific wherewithal to go out for 20 years and spend tens of millions” to grow their shelf, says James Kraska, a law professor at the U.S. Naval War College who also teaches a course at Harvard Law School on international maritime code. “Ghana hasn’t done this.”

America first claimed jurisdiction over its continental shelf in 1945, a few weeks after Japan’s surrender in World War II. For several years, the U.S. government had been concerned about Japanese ships catching salmon off Alaska, as well as other nations drilling for oil off American shores. With the war over, President Harry Truman proclaimed that an underwater area of some 750,000 square miles—about 4.5 Californias—now belonged to America.

No internationally agreed-upon definition of continental shelves existed until 1958, when 86 countries gathered at the first UN Convention on the Law of the Sea. The group decided, somewhat unhelpfully, that a shelf could extend as far and as deep as a nation could drill. By the following decade, technology had advanced so quickly that a country could claim virtually an entire ocean. Sure enough, one member of Congress from Florida proposed that the U.S. occupy what amounted to two-thirds of the North Atlantic.

President Lyndon B. Johnson warned against such expansionism. In a 1966 speech, he denounced the “new form of colonial competition” that threatened to emerge among maritime nations. “We must ensure that the deep seas and the ocean bottoms are, and remain, the legacy of all human beings,” he said. The following year, Arvid Pardo, an ambassador from Malta, called on the UN to deem the ocean floor “the common heritage of mankind.” In 1970, the U.S. voted alongside 107 other nations to do precisely that.

The UN reconvened in 1973 to legislate a shared vision of the seas. Over the next nine years, more than 150 nations and as many as 5,000 people gathered for off-and-on negotiating sessions in New York City and Geneva. They discussed a wide range of topics—freedom of navigation, fishing, scientific research, pollution, the seabed—and ultimately produced the Law of the Sea.

The U.S. had helped pave the way. Three years before the convention, the Nixon administration had presented a draft treaty that proposed a forerunner to the International Seabed Authority: an agency established by the Law of the Sea that would collect royalties from underwater resources and distribute them to the developing world. But the nation’s posture changed after Ronald Reagan’s election in 1980. American delegates began showing up to negotiating sessions wearing ties that bore the image of Adam Smith, the father of free markets. It was an early sign of the administration’s reluctance to regulate the maritime economy.

In 1982, the U.S. voted against adopting the Law of the Sea—one of only four countries to do so—and said it would refuse to ratify the finalized treaty. Reagan’s reason: the regulations on mining, which he thought would hamper America’s ability to exploit undersea mineral resources. He seemed particularly worried about the royalty scheme that would govern the international seafloor, a vast virgin deep that lies beyond the jurisdiction of any one state and makes up about half of the world’s ocean floor.

That June, Reagan reportedly told his National Security Council, “We’re policed and patrolled on land and there is so much regulation that I kind of thought that when you go out on the high seas you can do what you want.” The president was concerned about “free oceans closing where we were getting along fine before,” minutes from the meeting show. He dispatched onetime Defense Secretary Donald Rumsfeld to persuade other nations to reject the treaty, but the mission failed.

Just 16 years earlier, the U.S. under Johnson had set out to prevent nations from making unilateral claims to the high seas. Then America made its own. Months after the Law of the Sea was finalized, Reagan said the U.S. would abide by its rules on “traditional uses of the oceans,” such as navigation, but not by the “unnecessary political and economic restraints” that the treaty imposed on mining. Instead, Reagan claimed jurisdiction over all the natural and mineral resources within 200 nautical miles of the nation’s shores (230 regular miles), an allowance that the Law of the Sea granted only signatories. That is, he cited “international law” for permission, even though he had refused to ratify that law. Reagan showed that the U.S. could take what it wanted from the treaty without submitting to the UN. Judging by the newly extended shelf, it still can.

The State Department’s Extended Continental Shelf Project works out of a National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration building in Boulder, Colorado, some 800 miles from the nearest ocean. Its office is down the hall from the Space Weather Prediction Center. When I visited last year, maps of the Arctic adorned the walls, and a whiteboard showed an elementary red drawing of the U.S. and Canada protruding into the Atlantic. Inside sat Brian Van Pay, the director of the project, and Kevin Baumert, its lawyer.

Van Pay and Baumert are picky about words. When I asked whether America had just gotten bigger, Van Pay replied: “It depends on how you define it. If you’re talking about sovereignty”—he emphasized the last syllable—then no. “But if you’re talking about sovereign rights”—maybe. “But it’s not territory.”

[From the April 1969 issue: The deep-sea bed]

According to the Law of the Sea, a continental shelf stretches 200 nautical miles from a nation’s shores. Any country can mine this area without worrying about royalties. But the treaty lays out two formulas for tacking on “extended” shelf; calculating this is what kept Van Pay and Baumert busy. If you mine there, you need to pay royalties to the International Seabed Authority—unless you’re America and haven’t ratified the treaty.

The first formula requires finding the “foot of the continental slope,” where the seabed starts to flatten out. For the next 60 nautical miles beyond that point, you’ve got continental shelf. The second formula involves the sediment on the ocean floor. (This goes by the technical name “ooze.” It’s plankton skeletons, mainly.) Shelves extend as long as the sediment covering them is thick enough that oil and gas could plausibly be stashed underneath. A team of scientists, led by the geologist Debbie Hutchinson, scanned the ocean floor with seismic sensors to find this boundary. Two regulatory limits circumscribed Van Pay and Baumert’s calculations: No shelf can spread more than 350 nautical miles from shore, or more than 100 nautical miles beyond 2,500 meters of depth. The formulas yielded 1,279 coordinate points delineating the new shelf.

The rules are objective, but the results depend on other nations’ recognition. Parts of America’s new shelf overlap with those of the Bahamas, Canada, and Japan, prompting ongoing negotiations. And in March, Russia’s foreign ministry said that it wouldn’t recognize America’s shelf, because the U.S. hadn’t sent its data to the Commission on the Limits of the Continental Shelf, the agency created by the Law of the Sea to review such submissions.

Russia’s claim relates to a broader concern that the U.S. has essentially ignored unfriendly provisions in the treaty—such as oversight requirements—while exploiting advantageous ones, such as formulas for shelf expansion. Van Pay and Baumert disagree with that characterization. Baumert told me that America’s expansion is not unprecedented; more than three dozen countries have extended their shelves without ratifying the Law of the Sea. (Only four of those still haven’t ratified, though: Syria, the United Arab Emirates, Venezuela, and the United States.)

Furthermore, Van Pay and Baumert told me that they hadn’t sent in their new coordinate points because the Commission on the Limits of the Continental Shelf had never considered submissions from a nation that wasn’t a party to the Law of the Sea. I asked the commission, If America submitted its shelf boundaries, would you review them? “This question has never been raised,” Aldino Campos, the chair of the commission, told me. He said it wouldn’t discuss whether to consider such a submission unless it actually receives one. But ultimately the commission only makes recommendations; actually asserting the new limits of a continental shelf falls to the United States.

Even though America hasn’t ratified the treaty, Kraska, the law professor, told me it has an obligation to comply with it. He argued that it has taken on the force of “customary international law”—that is, a set of norms and practices that are so widely followed that they become binding to all nations, whether or not they’re signatories. All told, he said, the U.S. has made a “credible, good-faith effort” to extend its continental shelf in accordance with the Law of the Sea.

Most mainstream U.S. government officials want America to ratify the treaty. Five presidents and at least five secretaries of state have urged Congress to join, arguing that it would help bolster the international rule of law. Becoming a party to the Law of the Sea would also allow the U.S. to further legitimize its expanded shelf.

Ever since Reagan, though, Republican lawmakers have staved off ratification, which requires two-thirds of the Senate. Along with conservative groups such as the Heritage Foundation, they worry that the royalty schemes would impose an undue financial burden and that joining the treaty could result in a “dangerous loss of American sovereignty.”

Their calculus may soon change. As early as this year, the International Seabed Authority could finalize regulations that would open up mining on the international seafloor. Because America hasn’t ratified the Law of the Sea, it won’t have the right to participate. (Some conservatives argue, however, that the U.S. can simply do as it pleases on the international seafloor.) Pressure is mounting on lawmakers: In March, more than 300 former political and military leaders called on the Senate to ratify, reflecting concerns that America might not be able to keep up with China if it relies solely on its own shelf.

America may not mine its new seabed for decades anyhow. The role of the State Department, Van Pay and Baumert insist, is to set the fence posts, not referee what happens within them. In the meantime, America’s shelf could keep growing. “We always want to leave open that possibility,” Van Pay told me. More data could be collected, he said. “There are more invisible lines to draw.”

Editor’s Note: Washington Week With The Atlantic is a partnership between NewsHour Productions, WETA, and The Atlantic airing every Friday on PBS stations nationwide. Check your local listings or watch full episodes here.

Donald Trump has issued a flurry of executive orders, rolling back Biden-era policies and pardoning January 6 rioters. On Washington Week With The Atlantic, panelists joined to discuss the president’s first week back in office.

Meanwhile, as lawmakers contend with Trump’s initial steps as president, Democrats are attempting to regroup and retrench their party. The “very forceful and energizing resistance that Democrats put up for so long has dissipated, at least in this movement,” Ashley Parker said last night.

Joining the editor in chief of The Atlantic, Jeffrey Goldberg, to discuss this and more: Leigh Ann Caldwell, the chief Washington correspondent at Puck; Eugene Daniels, a chief Playbook and White House correspondent at Politico; Ashley Parker, a staff writer at The Atlantic; Charlie Savage, a Washington correspondent for The New York Times; Laura Barrón-López, a White House correspondent for PBS NewsHour.

Watch the full episode here.

This is an edition of The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here.

Our editors compiled a list of seven absorbing reads for your weekend. Spend time with stories about the secretive world of extreme fishing, new approaches to aging, and more.

Your Reading List

The Army of God Comes Out of the Shadows

By Stephanie McCrummen

Tens of millions of American Christians are embracing a charismatic movement known as the New Apostolic Reformation, which seeks to destroy the secular state.

America Needs to Radically Rethink What It Means to Be Old

By Jonathan Rauch

As 100-year lifespans become more common, the time has come for a new approach to school, work, and retirement.

Inside the Dangerous, Secretive World of Extreme Fishing

By Tyler Austin Harper

Why I swim out into rough seas 80 nights a year to hunt for striped bass

Americans Need to Party More

By Ellen Cushing

We’re not doing it as much as we used to. You can be the change we need.

Read These Six Books—Just Trust Us

By Tajja Isen

Each title richly rewards readers who come in with little prior knowledge.

Is Moderate Drinking Okay?

By Derek Thompson

“Every drink takes five minutes off your life.” Maybe the thought scares you. Personally, I find comfort in it.

The Agony of Texting With Men

By Matthew Schnipper

Many guys are bad at messaging their friends back—and it might be making them more lonely.

The Week Ahead

Season 2 of The Recruit, an action series about a young CIA lawyer who becomes embroiled in an international conflict (streaming on Netflix on Thursday) Dog Man, an animated film in the Captain Underpants universe about a police officer who is fused with his dog in a lifesaving surgery (in theaters Friday) The Sirens’ Call, a book by the MSNBC host Chris Hayes about how attention became the world’s most endangered resource (out Tuesday)

More in Culture

“Dear James”: My sad, sad friend talks only about herself. The Oscars have left the mainstream moviegoer behind. David Lynch captured the appeal of the unknown. A horrifying true story, told through mundane details Dave Chappelle’s sincere plea on Saturday Night Live

Catch Up on The Atlantic

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In my psychology practice, when tears enter the room, they have a way of cutting through the noise—all of the defenses, all of the pretenses. A client’s carefully constructed walls fall away, allowing something deep to emerge. I’ve seen this happen time and again, and it’s why for years I saw crying as one of the purest forms of vulnerability—until I discovered crying TikTok.

The trend is exactly what you might expect: People post videos of themselves crying (or trying not to). Some of these videos are slickly produced; some feature moody music; many rack up hundreds of thousands of views. These displays of vulnerability are, of course, not restricted to TikTok (whose fate, under the new Trump administration, is uncertain). They can also be found on YouTube, Instagram, and other apps, part of a broader online aesthetic. Influencers and celebrities strip down to what can seem like the rawest version of themselves, selling the promise of “real” emotional connection—and, not infrequently, products or their personal brand. In a post titled “Reacting to My Sad and Lonely Videos,” the YouTube star Trisha Paytas watches old footage of herself sobbing and is moved to tears all over again; this sort of post shares space in her channel with clips in which she pitches her own merch. On Instagram, influencers toggle between montages of sadness and sponsored videos that show them cozily sipping fancy tea.

The weepy confessions are, ostensibly, gestures toward intimacy. They’re meant to inspire empathy, to reassure viewers that influencers are just like them. But in fact, they’re exercises in what I’ve come to call “McVulnerability,” a synthetic version of vulnerability akin to fast food: mass-produced, easily accessible, sometimes tasty, but lacking in sustenance. True vulnerability can foster emotional closeness. McVulnerability offers only an illusion of it. And just as choosing fast food in favor of more nutritious options can, over time, result in harmful outcomes, consuming “fast vulnerability” instead of engaging in bona fide human interaction can send people down an emotionally unhealthy path.

[Read: The new empress of self-help is a TikTok star]

Not long ago in American culture, vulnerability was largely associated with weakness. To be vulnerable meant to be helpless or susceptible to harm. Then came Brené Brown, the social worker and research professor who, with her viral 2010 TED Talk, became one of the most prominent voices transforming the perception of vulnerability for a new audience. In her book Daring Greatly, Brown defined vulnerability as the “birthplace of love, belonging, joy, courage, empathy, and creativity,” and as a crucial element in personal growth—a liberating message for people raised to suppress their feelings and show toughness.

This was well before the consumerist blending of therapy-speak and personal branding that has become commonplace on social media. It was four years before The Body Keeps the Score got the masses talking about trauma, and it was eight years before Nicole LePera launched the Holistic Psychologist on Instagram, today one of the platform’s most popular therapy accounts. But in the past decade and a half, vulnerability’s trajectory has come to mirror that of many psychological concepts—such as mindfulness, boundary-setting, and self-love—whose lines of insight have been tangled up with the attention economy and the free market.

McVulnerability is perhaps an inevitable outcome of what the sociologist Eva Illouz identifies as a modern-day landscape of “emotional capitalism.” “Never has the private self been so publicly performed and harnessed to the discourses and values of the economic and political spheres,” Illouz writes in her book Cold Intimacies. Emotional capitalism has “realigned emotional cultures, making the economic self emotional and emotions more closely harnessed to instrumental action.” That is, not only does emotionality sell goods, but emotions themselves have also become commodities.

As people’s vulnerability proxies—podcasters, celebrities, crying YouTubers—pour out their heart while shilling for their favorite cashmere brands, consumerism becomes unconsciously tethered to the viewing or listening experience. Studies have found that when people spend more time on social-media platforms, they are more likely to buy more things and to do so impulsively—especially when they feel emotionally connected to the content they watch. This is, perhaps, one of the more insidious effects of McVulnerability: It helps encourage a self-perpetuating cycle of materialism and loneliness, in which one inevitably spawns the other.

Yet McVulnerability’s practitioners are also offering supply to satisfy a real emotional demand. As Derek Thompson wrote earlier this month in The Atlantic, more and more Americans are retreating from in-person social interactions, turning instead to smartphones and other devices in search of intimacy. Yes, they may be communicating with friends and family. But they are also spending a lot of time “with” people they don’t know at all.

[Read: ‘Close Friends,’ for a monthly fee]

The rise of momfluencers serves as a perfect example. Many new mothers find themselves isolated and exhausted as they make the transition into parenthood. Maybe their families live across the country, or their friends are too busy to stop by. Starved for community, they might be struggling to find people with whom they can sit down and say, This sucks. On social media, they find influencers sharing tearful confessions about mom guilt or mom rage. But these posts aren’t a substitute for actual community and support. Once the isolated moms put down their phone, they’re just as alone as they were before.

Not all of the vulnerability shared online is devoid of authenticity. It can be genuinely helpful when someone describes their personal trials publicly, such as a survivor of abuse who shares their story, galvanizing others to seek safety. Vulnerability caught on video can also offer a powerful glimpse into the gravity of collective tragedy. An emotional clip about losing a home to wildfires can, for instance, bring to life the human cost of crisis in a way that headlines and statistics cannot. And of course, some parents who share their difficult experiences online do provide a valuable service, offering validation and practical insights (on, say, postpartum depression) that aren’t always accessible elsewhere.

Next to those videos, it’s not hard to see the ways in which McVulnerability, melodramatic and consumption-driven, merely masquerades as a chance to connect. McVulnerability offers a fleeting, convenient, and comfortable digital experience, allowing the people who consume it to skirt past the complications of being in a relationship with another person—although for some viewers, truth be told, that might be part of the appeal.

In my years as a therapist, I’ve seen a trend among some of my younger clients: They prefer the controlled environment of the internet—the polish of YouTube, the ephemeral nature of TikTok—to the tender awkwardness of making new friends. Instead of reaching out to a peer, they’ll turn to the comfort of their phone and spend time with their preferred influencers. At a talk in 2023, the psychotherapist Esther Perel touched on this impulse while discussing what she calls “artificial intimacy”—pseudo-experiences of emotional closeness that mimic connection but lack depth. These “digitally facilitated connections,” she said, risk “lowering our expectations of intimacy between humans” and leave us “unprepared and unable to tolerate the inevitable unpredictabilities of human nature, love, and life.” I understand where my young clients are coming from: Putting yourself out there is uncomfortable. But for the reasons Perel articulated, I also worry that by relying mostly on social media to encounter other humans, they’re forfeiting opportunities to develop the skills that could help them thrive in the flesh-and-blood world.

One of my psychology mentors has a point she repeats often: “Vulnerability is generous.” It can be easier to project invulnerability, to pretend we don’t believe strongly in an issue, to act as if we don’t want. But being vulnerable—exposing ourselves via the unfiltered messiness of life—is one of the biggest emotional risks we can take, and one of the greatest gifts we can offer another person. When you choose to be vulnerable, you are essentially saying: I’m going to stand here as my full self, and I invite you to do the same.

McVulnerability, from whichever angle you look at it, is the opposite of generous. It doesn’t require risk. It may pretend to give, but ultimately, it takes. And it leaves most of its consumers hungry for what they’re craving: human connection—the real thing.