Investigating Flock Safety

  1. Atlanta, Georgia.

Six kids drive into a quiet neighborhood, jump out, and start pulling door handles on parked cars. No smashed windows. No tools. In a city like Atlanta, pull ten F-150 door handles and about three will be unlocked. One may have a gun inside.

That night, somebody’s gun was stolen.

The owner posted on Nextdoor: “Oh my gosh. I forgot my gun in my car, and it’s now gone.”

One neighbor who saw the post was an electrical engineer named Garrett Langley. He went to the police. The major he spoke with was, in Langley’s telling, “fairly apathetic.” Nobody had been physically hurt. There were no fingerprints and no useful evidence.

But the major told him what would change that.

A license plate.

So Langley built a plate reader by hand. An Android phone sealed inside a waterproof box, pointed at the entrance to his neighborhood. It photographed every car that entered. Within 30 days, it knew who lived there and who did not.

Two months later, another unlocked car. Another stolen gun. Langley gave police the plate of the one vehicle his system did not recognize. A lookout went out. Hours later, police found the vehicle, recovered the gun, and made an arrest.

Nine years later, that phone in a waterproof box had become a company valued at $7.5 billion. More than 100,000 cameras. Thousands of cities. One searchable network logging the movements of drivers across the United States.

And here is what one person could do with it.

In 2025, a sheriff’s deputy in Texas entered a search reason into Flock’s database: “had an abortion, search for female.” The query reached 83,345 cameras across 6,809 networks.

No warrant.

One deputy. One search. A national dragnet.

How did one stolen gun become one of the largest surveillance networks in American history?


From Victim to Watchman

Garrett Langley was not a police officer or defense contractor. He was an engineer whose previous startup, an airline seat-upgrade app, had been acquired by Cox Enterprises. Forbes noted that he had no experience in law-enforcement technology.

What he had was a prototype and a detective telling him it worked.

Langley called two former Georgia Tech classmates, Paige Todd and Matt Feury, and told them to quit their jobs. The three launched Flock Safety around a dining-room table in March 2017. They went through Y Combinator and sold a simple promise:

Evidence, not just footage.

Then came the decision that built the network. It was not a technical breakthrough. It was a sales strategy.

Police procurement is slow. Budgets. City councils. Requisitions. Public meetings. Flock went around that process by selling subscriptions to homeowners’ associations and neighborhood groups. Private citizens could approve a camera immediately, then share its footage with police voluntarily.

The state did not build the network.

Neighborhoods bought it and handed the state the keys.

Flock does not merely sell cameras. It leases them for roughly $2,000 to $3,000 per camera each year. By 2025, the company said it had passed $300 million in annual recurring revenue, growing about 70 percent in a year. Its investors include Andreessen Horowitz, Founders Fund, Kleiner Perkins, Tiger Global, and Y Combinator.

But nobody pays a $7.5 billion valuation for poles with lenses attached.

Every new neighborhood makes the system more valuable to every agency already using it. A camera records a plate. The network makes that plate searchable across jurisdictions. One HOA sees the entrance to one subdivision. Thousands of connected cameras see a person’s route.

The product is not the camera.

The product is the database.

Flock found another growth channel in local television. Langley has said the company’s first tens of millions in recurring revenue came “strictly off of five o’clock news.” When a camera helped solve a crime, Flock contacted the local station. Crime produced coverage. Coverage produced fear. Fear produced another subscription.

Fear was not a side effect.

Fear was the marketing department.

By 2025, Langley was no longer talking about one stolen gun. He told Forbes that Flock’s goal was to eliminate virtually all crime in America within a decade.

Not reduce it.

Eliminate it.

The founding story is compelling: a frustrated neighbor built a tool the police needed. A victim became a watchman. A camera solved a crime.

Then the camera became a network, and the watchman stopped being identifiable.


The Policies Say No. The Logs Say Yes.

Flock’s public position sounds reassuring. The company says customers own their data. Its website has stated that Flock will not share, sell, or access footage and that nobody at the company monitors it.

Whenever abuse comes up, the defense is familiar: Flock builds the tool. Customers decide how to use it.

Public records tell a different story.

MuckRock allows people to file Freedom of Information requests and publish the results. Search its archive for Flock Safety and you find contracts, emails, shared-network lists, and audit logs from departments across the country.

One records request produced a week of logs from Frisco, Texas.

Seven days. June 1 through June 7, 2026.

102,883 searches.

Most were not performed by Frisco police. Houston Police conducted 20,346 searches. Dallas Police conducted 17,598. The Texas Department of Public Safety conducted 11,607. Agencies with no jurisdiction in Frisco reached into the suburb’s camera network tens of thousands of times.

The same disclosure listed 590 organizations in the shared network. Police departments. Campus officers. Hospital districts. Home Depot. Lowe’s. Private corporations could operate their own cameras, flag vehicles, and generate alerts inside the same system used by law enforcement.

Flock does not need to share the data manually.

The network shares it by design.

The same architecture created three routes for federal access. A local agency can share directly. A local officer can conduct a search on behalf of a federal agency. Or a setting can expose a network beyond the jurisdiction that bought it.

Records reviewed by journalists and researchers found thousands of immigration-related searches. Agencies in Virginia conducted nearly 3,000 in twelve months. Denver logged more than 1,400 despite the city’s sanctuary policy. Atlanta denied cooperating with immigration enforcement while audit records showed searches performed on ICE’s behalf.

Then came Johnson County, Texas.

A woman’s partner reported that she had self-managed an abortion. A deputy entered her description and search reason into Flock. The query crossed state lines, including into states where abortion was legally protected, and returned sightings of her vehicle in Dallas.

Whatever your politics on abortion, the mechanism is the story. A state’s legal protection ended at its border.

The cameras did not.

The Electronic Frontier Foundation later obtained more than 12 million search logs from over 3,900 agencies. Among them were searches connected to political protests and animal-rights activists. First Amendment activity, converted into license-plate queries.

When officers wanted to obscure what they were doing, some entered “investigation” as the reason or reused case numbers unrelated to the search.

Cities often did not understand the reach of their own systems. Mountain View discovered that a broad lookup feature had been enabled on 29 of its 30 cameras without the city’s knowledge. Outside agencies searched its data hundreds of thousands of times. Syracuse’s network reportedly received 4.4 million searches in one year. Oxnard restricted access to California, only for a vendor-side issue to switch nationwide sharing back on.

Evanston canceled its contract. Flock allegedly reinstalled the cameras without permission.

How the fuck does that happen?

Even when nobody abuses the database, the database can be wrong. A Flock camera in Toledo reportedly confused a seven with a two. Police forced an innocent driver to the ground at gunpoint, a dog bit him, and he was jailed. Other false alerts have led officers to stop grandparents and families with children at gunpoint.

The database does not have to be right.

It only has to be believed.


The Algorithmic Panopticon

In 1787, English philosopher Jeremy Bentham designed a prison.

The cells formed a ring around a central watchtower. The prisoners were always visible. The tower’s windows prevented them from knowing whether a guard was looking back.

That uncertainty was the mechanism.

If an inmate could never verify when he was being watched, he had to behave as though he always was. Bentham called the design the Panopticon. He considered it a humane technology: discipline without chains, order without constant force.

In 1975, Michel Foucault recognized what the blueprint actually described.

Foucault was a French philosopher who spent his career studying the inner workings of power. In Discipline and Punish, he argued that the Panopticon was more than a prison. It was a diagram of modern society.

The genius of the tower is not the guard. It is the guard the prisoner builds inside himself.

Foucault wrote that power becomes “automatized and disindividualized.” Nobody has to occupy the tower continuously. Surveillance only needs to be possible, believable, and built into the environment. The prisoner does the remaining work.

This produces the standard objection: nobody is sitting behind a desk following your Honda to Trader Joe’s.

That objection is Foucault’s point.

The system does not require continuous observation. It requires uncertainty. You do not know whether an officer, federal agent, corporation, or HOA administrator will search your plate. You only know that they can.

Imagine driving to a protest. A clinic. An immigration lawyer’s office. The cameras exist on the route, but the search is invisible. Somewhere in the back of your mind appears a small question:

Maybe I should not go.

That hesitation is the panopticon working.

Bentham’s tower needed a guard who might be watching.

Flock’s tower has a search bar.

There is an honest limitation to the analogy. A panopticon nobody knows about cannot discipline anyone. Bentham’s inmates had to see the tower. Most Americans still do not know what a Flock camera looks like.

For them, the system is not yet a panopticon.

It is a dragnet.

But every investigation, canceled contract, and camera added to the DeFlock map makes the network more visible. Public awareness allows resistance. It also activates the psychological mechanism Foucault described.

You now know the grid exists.

Tomorrow you may notice it on your commute.


Power From the Bottom Up

The Panopticon explains what surveillance does. It does not fully explain who built this one.

Foucault rejected the idea that power is something the state simply owns and points downward like a weapon. Modern power, he argued, travels “capillary-wise.” It circulates through the smallest channels of ordinary life: schools, workplaces, hospitals, neighborhoods, and families.

People do not merely receive power.

They participate in it.

They classify each other. Report each other. Enforce norms. Collect records. Modern power makes authority less visible while making the population more visible.

Now return to Flock’s sales model.

Congress did not fund the network. No president announced it. HOAs, shopping centres, cities, and private companies assembled it subscription by subscription. Residents purchased the cameras with their own dues and mounted them at the entrances to their own neighborhoods.

Then they connected them to police.

This is sometimes called surveillance deputization. Ordinary people become extensions of a policing apparatus without anyone formally deputizing them.

The boundary between public and private authority did not get smashed in a dramatic takeover. It dissolved while looking like a neighborhood-watch upgrade.

And disciplinary power does more than observe. It sorts.

Research in Virginia’s Hampton Roads region found Flock cameras disproportionately concentrated in and around Black neighborhoods. Other audit logs showed officers using racial slurs for Romani and Traveller communities as reasons for “Convoy” searches.

The camera may read every plate using the same software.

The network does not watch every community equally.


The Total Sensorium

Late in an interview, Langley described the metric he uses to judge Flock’s success:

“For every crime that occurs that doesn’t get solved, it means we didn’t have enough cameras. That’s, to me, the easiest rubric.”

Follow that logic to its conclusion.

Every unsolved crime is evidence of insufficient surveillance. The correct number of cameras is always more. The final camera can only be installed after the final crime has been solved.

The plate reader becomes an entry point.

Flock’s Raven product adds audio detection. The company markets it for identifying gunshots, but the system can also flag voices, fireworks, and racing vehicles. The gaze develops ears.

Flock moved into “Drone as First Responder” technology after acquiring Aerodome and developing its Alpha drone. The gaze takes flight.

Then there is Nova.

Internal documents reported by 404 Media describe a product combining license-plate data with public records, property information, commercial data, and data-breach material. The stated capability is blunt: police can “jump from LPR to person.”

The system stops tracking vehicles and starts assembling people.

Foucault called this relationship power-knowledge. Systems of power create knowledge about a person, and every new record expands what institutions can do to the person inside it.

The database does not passively record you. It produces an institutional version of you.

Suspect vehicle. Hot-list entry. Associate. Pattern. Risk.

Once the file exists, the next question is how it will be used.

The audit log supplied the answer:

“Had an abortion, search for female.”


Watching the Watchers

June 2026. Dayton, Ohio.

City workers approached surveillance cameras their own city paid for and covered them with trash bags.

Officials had discovered that Dayton’s Flock data was searched thousands of times for immigration enforcement, contrary to city policy. The cameras remained under contract. While the legal questions moved through the system, the city physically blinded its own panopticon.

Foucault wrote that where there is power, there is resistance.

Cities have canceled contracts. Privacy commissions have rejected deployments. Legislators have proposed warrant requirements, sharing restrictions, and limits on data retention. Some people have mapped cameras, blocked their infrared systems, covered their lenses, or cut the poles down.

Software engineer Will Freeman created DeFlock, a crowdsourced public map containing more than 100,000 plate-reader locations.

It is tempting to say the map defeats the Panopticon by making the cameras visible. Bentham’s inmates could already see the tower. Visibility was how the tower disciplined them.

DeFlock reverses the direction of observation.

Researchers call this sousveillance: watching from below. Map the cameras. Request the logs. Publish the contracts. Place the people inside the tower under observation.

The watchers become watchable.

But the map has a double edge. Every new pin helps people avoid or challenge the network. Every pin also reminds them the network exists. Resistance and discipline expand together.

Langley initially described opposition to Flock as coordinated attacks from groups seeking to weaken public safety. He called DeFlock a “terroristic organization” driven by chaos. After a bipartisan backlash, he apologized and acknowledged that critics had valid concerns.

Asked about websites mapping his cameras, he said: “Assuming no one is committing a crime, it’s perfectly fine.”

Read that again.

If you have done nothing wrong, being watched is no problem. For years, that was the argument for pointing Flock cameras at everyone else. When the gaze turned toward the company, accepting the same principle required a national backlash.

Whether the apology marks a change of heart or a change in public-relations strategy remains an open question.

The audit logs will answer it.


The Camera We Bought

One of the largest surveillance networks in American history was never imposed through a single law.

No vote. No decree. No dramatic expansion of federal power.

We bought it.

With HOA dues. With private security budgets. With city-council line items most people never read. We installed it on our streets, pointed it at our neighbors, and gave police access because a company promised evidence, safety, and solved crimes.

Garrett Langley did not force every town to join. He built a product, and institutions across the country lined up to deputize themselves.

That is the uncomfortable part.

The system wanted this more than he did.

Foucault’s warning was never limited to an authoritarian ruler staring down from a tower. Modern power rarely arrives wearing a crown. It travels through ordinary institutions and willing participants. It presents itself as administration. Efficiency. Care.

Or a subscription service costing $2,500 a year.

The cancellations prove the network can be dismantled. Dayton bagged its cameras. Other cities walked away. But hundreds of new municipalities continued signing contracts while the revolt grew.

Resistance and surveillance are racing across the same map.

Which side does your town land on?

You can check now. The map exists.

And remember how all of this began. One camera. An Android phone inside a waterproof box. A frustrated engineer trying to catch whoever stole a gun from an unlocked car.

The thief took the gun.

What has been taken since is a lot harder to recover.


References

Bentham, J. (1791). Panopticon; or, The Inspection-House.

Foucault, M. (1975). Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison.

Foucault, M. (1976). Society Must Be Defended: Lectures at the Collège de France.

Flock Safety. Trust and Transparency materials and product documentation.

MuckRock. Flock Safety contracts, shared-network records, and agency audit logs.

Electronic Frontier Foundation. Flock Safety public-record investigations and ALPR litigation.

American Civil Liberties Union. Get the Flock Out campaign and Flock Safety research.

404 Media. Reporting on Flock network access, federal searches, camera security, and Nova.

Forbes. Reporting and interviews concerning Flock Safety, Garrett Langley, company growth, and opposition to the network.

Cheeky Pint. “Garrett Langley of Flock Safety” interview transcript.

DeFlock. Crowdsourced automated license-plate-reader map.

The Philosophy of Silicon Valley

“We are as gods and might as well get good at it.” — Stewart Brand, 1968

Stewart Brand wrote that in the first Whole Earth Catalog — the bible of the counterculture. The same counterculture that dropped acid hoping to dissolve hierarchies, that saw the personal computer as the new LSD, that genuinely believed technology could liberate humanity from the prison of industrial capitalism.

Fifty-six years later, Elon Musk personally decides which posts 300 million people see on what used to be our version of the public square. Jeff Bezos owns the infrastructure through which over 40% of American e-commerce flows, collecting a cut of every transaction like a feudal lord taxing river crossings. Mark Zuckerberg runs a machine that knows you’re pregnant before your family does, that predicts your politics with more accuracy than you could articulate yourself, that shapes your reality through algorithms you’ll never see.

Brand was right. These men are gods. They got good at it.

But he never defined “we.” In the 21st century, it’s obvious: “we” never meant all of us. The hippies didn’t destroy the hierarchy — they built a new one. The libertarians didn’t eliminate authority — they privatized it. The tech utopians who promised to democratize everything created the most concentrated power structure in human history.

When we dreamed of the future, we imagined liberation. What we got was technofeudalism.


The Californian Ideology

In 1995, British academics Richard Barbrook and Andy Cameron noticed something strange happening in the West and published an essay about it: The Californian Ideology.

Their argument was simple and explosive. The hippies and the yuppies — the acid-dropping communalists and the free-market fundamentalists, the people who wanted to burn the system down and the people who wanted to optimize it — had inexplicably merged into a single ideological force.

This shouldn’t have been possible. These two groups had been at war.

On one side: conservative capitalists. Reagan Republicans. Believers in unfettered private enterprise, supporters of the Vietnam War, people who saw hippies as a genuine threat to American civilization. On May 15, 1969, Reagan literally sent the National Guard to raid Berkeley radicals protesting the war on campus. One man was shot dead. Over 125 needed hospital treatment. This wasn’t a policy disagreement. It was a pseudo-civil war.

On the other side: the counterculture. Dreamers who opposed imperialism, sexism, mindless consumerism, and everything the establishment represented. Deeply influenced by Marshall McLuhan, who argued that the convergence of media, computing, and telecommunications would produce a virtual democracy free from inequality. They believed technology would overthrow big business and big government — not through organizing or fighting for state power, but automatically. The tools themselves would do the liberating.

Twenty-five years after Reagan’s National Guard raid, Barbrook and Cameron argued these two sides had synthesized. And the glue was technological determinism — the shared belief that technology, by its very nature, produces freedom.

You could be anti-establishment and pro-market. A rebel and an entrepreneur. You could rage against institutional authority while building your startup. Drop acid on the weekend, optimize stock options on Monday. As Barbrook and Cameron wrote: “The Californian Ideology happily answers this conundrum by believing in both visions at the same time — and by not criticising either of them.”

This caught fire because most participants in both movements were skilled information workers — programmers, engineers, marketers — who worked within or adjacent to the emerging tech industry. Unlike assembly line workers, they couldn’t easily be replaced. They had autonomy, creative control, good pay, interesting problems. They had power over their labor in a way most people didn’t.

There was no need to keep protesting. This was the dream. And when these hippies got burnt out of corporate culture, they became entrepreneurs themselves. They stopped demanding public solutions and started trying to fix problems individually. They accepted that liberation depends on your personal talent, your hustle, your ability to surf the wave of technological change.

But for this mythology to hold — for the self-made entrepreneur to feel real — you have to ignore how Silicon Valley was actually built.

The first computer was funded by a £17,470 British government grant in 1834. IBM only built the first programmable digital computer because the U.S. Defense Department commissioned it during the Korean War. The entire internet was built with taxpayer dollars through DARPA. GPS, touchscreens, voice recognition, search algorithms — all came from publicly funded research. When Japanese companies threatened American dominance in microchips in the 1980s, the libertarian computer capitalists of California had no ideological qualms about joining a state-sponsored cartel to fight them off.

Silicon Valley didn’t invent DIY culture. They commercialized it. They took the collective achievements of hobbyists and privatized them for profit.

The new left’s suspicion of institutions wasn’t wrong. Governments do fund the military-industrial complex. Corporations do exploit workers. But their response — exit the system, build alternative digital communities, let tech do the liberating — led them to abandon the fight for collective power. And that vacuum was filled by privatized power that put all its faith in markets.

Treating technology as a force of nature, inevitable and beyond politics, sounds like optimism. It’s actually surrender. It’s saying: we shouldn’t try to collectively shape the future. We should let whoever owns the tools decide.

The Californian Ideology is the con. It’s how you get people to accept oligarchy while believing they’re living through liberation.

The hippies who built it — the ones who genuinely thought they were creating freedom — ended up building institutions more powerful and more oppressive than anything the 1960s radicals were fighting against. Facebook controls public discourse more effectively than any government propaganda. Amazon dominates retail more completely than Standard Oil ever dominated energy. Google surveils you more thoroughly than the FBI ever dreamed of.

And the people running these companies still see themselves as rebels. Outsiders. Disruptors.

They didn’t escape the Man. They became the Man — just with better PR.


From Ideology to Infrastructure

Silicon Valley companies all say the same things: “We’re building tools that empower individuals. We’re creating open systems where anyone can compete. Information wants to be free.”

What they actually built: platforms that require you to surrender control to use them, walled gardens with switching costs so high you’re essentially trapped, and a surveillance apparatus that rivals the NSA.

Ideology alone doesn’t build monopolies. You need mechanisms. Three of them, specifically.

Engineering Dependence

Mark Zuckerberg didn’t invent social networking. What Facebook figured out was how to make your relationships proprietary.

MySpace was first and bigger. But it was a mess — fake profiles, bots, catfishing. Facebook’s innovation was requiring mutual friend connections. Someone had to vouch for you. This created a verified social graph: a network of authenticated relationships. And once you built that graph, it became impossible to replicate elsewhere.

You don’t use Facebook because you like Facebook. You use it because your family, your friends, and your colleagues are on it. The software isn’t special. The network — years of connections, photos, memories — is irreplaceable.

Internal emails obtained by the FTC reveal Facebook understood this explicitly. January 2012: “Photos are perhaps one of the most important ways we can make switching costs very high for users… it will be very tough for a user to switch if they can’t take those photos and associated data/comments with them.”

They weren’t subtle about it. The FTC called it the “ratchet effect” — switching costs that increase over time. The longer you use Facebook, the more trapped you become.

Google+ proved the trap works. Google spent $585 million building a competitor. Unlimited resources, billions of users, the best engineers on earth. It failed spectacularly — 90% of users couldn’t stay on the platform for more than five seconds. Why? As Facebook’s internal emails noted: “People who are big fans of G+ are having a hard time convincing their friends to participate because switching costs would be high due to friend density on Facebook.”

You could build a technically superior product with infinite money and it wouldn’t matter. Facebook won not because it was better, but because it achieved critical mass first. Network effects at scale make you invincible.

Google operates on the same logic, different mechanism. More users generate more queries. More queries produce better training data. Better algorithms attract more users. Repeat. The August 2025 DOJ ruling revealed the scale: Google receives nine times more web queries per day than all rivals combined. Nineteen times more on mobile. Over 90% of unique search phrases on the web are only ever seen by Google — giving them an insurmountable algorithmic advantage their competitors will never close.

Amazon’s version: external sellers pay up to 50% of each sale back to Amazon, yet can’t leave because their customers are all there. A 2023 FTC lawsuit revealed Amazon was copying external vendors’ products, selling them cheaper, and burying the competition in their own algorithm. It’s not a marketplace. It’s a managed extraction system where the emperor decides who lives and who dies.

Regulatory Arbitrage

Did you know Uber and Lyft aren’t classified as transportation companies? They’re “technology platforms that connect riders with drivers.” The semantics matter because taxi companies follow taxi regulations — vehicle safety, background checks, commercial insurance, labor laws. Technology companies don’t.

When California passed a law requiring gig companies to classify drivers as employees, Uber, Lyft, and DoorDash responded by threatening to shut down operations and raising over $200 million for a ballot initiative. Proposition 22 passed with 59% approval — built on a campaign of consumer incentives, discounts, and manufactured dependence. A UC Berkeley study found drivers post-Prop 22 earn an average of $5.97 per hour after expenses.

When legislative lobbying fails, you take it directly to voters with overwhelming spending. When that’s not enough, you hire the government itself. Tech lobbying went from $19.2 million combined in 2010 to $124 million in 2020. Meta alone spent $25 million in 2024. Six major tech companies employ roughly 300 lobbyists — one for every two members of Congress. 86% of Facebook’s lobbyists previously worked in government. 94% of Congress members with jurisdiction over privacy and antitrust received money from Big Tech PACs or lobbyists.

What that money buys: performative congressional hearings where CEOs give non-answers. Privacy bills so watered down they’re meaningless. Enforcement actions that result in settlements — fines that sound enormous but represent fractions of revenue, with no admission of wrongdoing.

Surveillance Capitalism

Harvard professor Shoshana Zuboff spent years studying Google and concluded they invented a new economic logic she calls surveillance capitalism: “the unilateral claiming of private human experience as free raw material for translation into behavioural data.”

Before 2001, Google used your data to improve search. Symbiotic — you get better results, they get better algorithms. After 2001, they realized that same data could predict which ads you’d click on. Those predictions were worth money. So they started keeping behavioural surplus — data not needed to improve their service, just valuable to advertisers. Google went from $19 million in revenue in 2000 to $3.5 billion in 2004.

But it goes beyond prediction. As Zuboff writes: “The shift is from monitoring to what data scientists call actuating. Surveillance capitalists develop economies of action, as they learn to tune, herd, and condition our behaviour with subtle cues, rewards, and punishments that shunt us toward their most profitable outcomes.”

You think you’re choosing. The algorithm is studying what makes you click, what makes you buy, and engineering your environment to produce more of both. You’re not the customer. You’re the raw material.

In January 2012, Facebook conducted what may be the largest psychological field experiment in history: they manipulated the emotions of 689,003 users without consent by altering their news feeds. When positive content was reduced, people produced fewer positive posts. When negative content was reduced, the opposite occurred. Facebook demonstrated it could systematically alter your emotional state at scale by controlling your information environment. When this came to light in 2014, they pointed to their data use policy as consent.

The antitrust framework was completely unequipped to respond. Under the Consumer Welfare Standard, antitrust lawsuits can only focus on consumer prices. But these companies don’t charge for their services. It wasn’t until Lina Khan published Amazon’s Antitrust Paradox that people began to understand how inadequate the framework was — and by then, the monopolies were too entrenched, the switching costs too high, the political will too weak.

Three mechanisms. Engineering dependence. Regulatory arbitrage. Surveillance capitalism. Built deliberately, carefully, profitably. The Californian Ideology became infrastructure.

And that infrastructure ushered in something scholars are only now finding words for.


Technofeudalism

Amazon takes 45% from third-party sellers as of 2024. Not 45% of profit. Not 45% of revenue. 45% of an entire sale. If you sell a $100 product, Amazon takes $45 before you’ve paid for manufacturing, shipping, storage, or your own time.

In 2014, Amazon took 10%. In ten years they more than quadrupled the tribute. Not because Amazon got better at anything. Not because it started providing more value. Simply because it could. Because once you’re on Amazon, leaving isn’t an option. Your customers expect Prime shipping. Your competitors are there. The algorithm has learned your business. You’re trapped.

This isn’t capitalism. Capitalism is about competition — businesses fight for market share by offering better products or lower prices. Amazon doesn’t compete anymore because it owns the market itself.

Greek economist Yanis Varoufakis calls this technofeudalism.

To understand the shift, you have to understand what capital has become. Traditional capital — factories, machines, assembly lines — was physical. It took raw material and labor and transformed them into commodities. The most valuable capital on the planet today is cloud capital: the algorithms, platforms, servers, and data structures that hold the world’s information. Cloud capital doesn’t produce commodities. It produces behaviour.

As Varoufakis puts it: “Cloud capital is not there to produce, but it is there to modify your behaviour.” Amazon’s algorithm doesn’t make products — it shapes what you want to buy and how much you’ll pay. Facebook’s feed doesn’t create content — it trains you to keep scrolling. TikTok doesn’t produce videos — it learns exactly what will keep you watching until 3 AM on a work night.

This is the first form of capital in human history that accumulates without requiring waged labor. It just needs you. Scrolling. Clicking. Training the machine to train you.

Under traditional capitalism, profit comes from production — you exploit labor, make things, sell them for more than they cost. And profit is vulnerable. Competitors can undercut you. Workers can organize. Markets shift. Under cloud capital, income comes from rent. Rent comes from owning the land where economic activity happens. You don’t compete. You own the territory and extract payment from anyone who wants to use it.

Medieval lords didn’t compete in markets. They owned the fiefdom. If you wanted to farm, trade, or live there, you paid tribute.

Apple takes 30% of every App Store transaction — not because Apple built the app, not because Apple competed and won, but because if you want to reach iPhone users, you must go through Apple’s land. That’s rent. Amazon copies successful third-party products, promotes its own versions, and crushes the competition — not through better production, but through control of territory. That’s rent. Google doesn’t create content. It taxes everyone trying to be found. That’s rent.

The shift from profit to rent is the shift from capitalism to feudalism. And it happened so smoothly most people didn’t notice.

Varoufakis describes Amazon as “an algorithmically constructed Panopticon where, unable to see each other, we only see Jeff’s all-seeing algorithm.” You search for running shoes. Your friend searches for running shoes. You get completely different results — not because Amazon is showing you the best options, but because the algorithm has calculated which shoes will extract the maximum money from you specifically, based on your browsing history, purchase history, estimated income, and how desperate it thinks you are.

You’re not shopping in a market. You’re in a personalized extraction chamber.

Cloud capital replaced industrial capital. Behavior modification replaced production. Rent replaced profit. Fiefs replaced markets. Lords replaced capitalists.

We called it innovation.

But here’s the question the ideology still has to answer: how do you extract rent from billions of people generating your wealth for free and still believe you’re the hero? How do you justify this to yourself and to the world?

You need a religion.


The Theology of Exit

On November 15, 2016, Peter Thiel walked into Trump Tower — not as a donor looking for access, but as a kingmaker. He’d backed Trump publicly, spoken at the Republican National Convention, donated $1.25 million to the campaign. Now he was helping staff the transition team.

But in his own mind, Thiel wasn’t playing politics. He was executing an exit strategy.

Thiel has spent decades funding projects that sound like science fiction: seasteading (sovereign nations on floating platforms in international waters), life extension research, New Zealand doomsday bunkers, parallel governance structures, crypto as escape from government currencies. Every single one shares the same premise: the system is broken beyond repair, so the enlightened must exit.

Don’t reform democracy. Exit from it. Don’t accept mortality. Exit from it. Don’t work within institutions. Build parallel ones and leave.

Political scientist Albert Hirschman identified two responses to broken systems. Voice: stay and fight, organize, reform from within — fundamentally democratic, because you can’t leave, so you have to make things better for everyone. Exit: find the door and go somewhere else — fundamentally individualistic, because if you have the resources, you’re gone.

Democracy requires voice. Silicon Valley’s entire mythology is built on exit.

Don’t like working for IBM? Exit and start Apple. Don’t like regulation? Exit to crypto. Don’t like Earth? Exit to Mars. When you’ve exited from everything except reality itself, you just aim exit at bigger targets: democracy, mortality, human limitations, the present tense.

Three theologies underpin this impulse.

The Singularity is Ray Kurzweil’s religion. He’s 76, takes 100 supplements a day, and believes he’s going to live forever — literally. His logic: technology accelerates exponentially, AI is approaching the Singularity (where artificial intelligence becomes self-improving), and at that point death becomes optional, consciousness can be uploaded, biology is just a phase we’re passing through. Kurzweil works at Google as Director of Engineering. What this theology means in practice: present-day problems are rounding errors. Why fix healthcare or climate change when AGI will either solve everything or end everything? Therefore, the people building AI are doing the most important work in human history and shouldn’t be constrained by regulations, ethics committees, or democratic oversight. Sam Altman recently secured $7 trillion in funding commitments for AI infrastructure. You don’t raise $7 trillion to make a better chatbot. You raise it because you believe you’re ushering in the Kingdom of God.

Longtermism started reasonably enough — use evidence and math to do the most good — then Oxford philosophers got involved. The logic: the future could contain trillions of people, so a 0.01% reduction in existential risk is worth more than saving a million lives today. Therefore, accumulating vast wealth is ethical if you’ll donate it to the right causes. Therefore, the ends justify the means, and the future matters infinitely more than the present. Sam Bankman-Fried stole $8 billion from customers and convinced himself it was moral because he planned to donate to AI safety research. When caught, he genuinely seemed confused that people were angry. In his framework, he was maximizing expected value across possible futures. The fraud wasn’t a deviation from the theology. It was the theology taken seriously.

Yarvinism is the political theology. Curtis Yarvin argues under the pen name Mencius Moldbug that democracy is a failed experiment, elections are theater, and countries should be run like corporations. If you don’t like how your country is run, exit to a better-run one. Turn citizenship into a subscription service. His readers include Peter Thiel, parts of the Trump administration, and a significant chunk of tech elites who won’t say his name in public but know his ideas. Thiel funded Yarvin’s work. He backs politicians like JD Vance who discuss these ideas openly. In 2009, Thiel wrote: “I no longer believe that freedom and democracy are compatible.” That’s not a warning. It’s a mission statement.

Three theologies, one impulse. They differ in target but share the same DNA: technological determinism (progress is inevitable, just accelerate it), elite vanguardism (only a small group understands), contempt for democratic deliberation (too slow, too stupid), and escape as the answer (don’t reform, exit). They all transform might into right. If you’re rich enough to fund life extension, you deserve immortality. If you’re powerful enough to exit democracy, democracy must have been failing anyway.

Look at the pattern. Thiel: made his fortune in tech, funds life extension research, influenced by Yarvin, backs Trump and Vance, funds seasteading and New Zealand bunkers, invests in AI. Musk: buys Twitter to control public discourse, promotes crypto as escape from government currency, builds rockets for literal planetary exit, develops AI while warning about it. These aren’t contradictions. They’re all the same philosophy. They’re all exit.

Without the theology, what they’re doing sounds monstrous: we’re billionaires extracting rent from your unpaid labor while escaping all democratic accountability, hoarding resources while the world burns, accumulating power that would make feudal lords jealous.

With the theology: we’re building the future. Democracy is too slow for existential challenges. Present suffering is a rounding error compared to infinite future value. The enlightened few must guide humanity to the Singularity. You’re trapped in the present. We’re thinking in centuries.

The theology transforms oligarchy into sacred duty. Rent extraction becomes shepherding humanity. They’re not lords. They’re prophets.

Sam Bankman-Fried is the clearest example of what happens when the theology is taken to its logical conclusion. He genuinely believed the math. Future people matter infinitely more than present people. Therefore, accumulating wealth through fraud was ethical if deployed toward the right causes. He’s now serving 25 years.

Did the theology fail? Or did it work exactly as designed?

Both. It failed in the obvious sense. But it worked in the sense that mattered: it gave him permission. Permission to steal billions. Permission to lie to investors and regulators. Permission to believe normal rules didn’t apply because he was working on the real problems. The theology didn’t prevent his downfall. It caused it. It gave him a framework where destroying himself and everyone around him felt like moral clarity.

And the goalposts always move. Kurzweil has been predicting the Singularity since the 1990s — currently estimated 2045. Thiel has been talking about seasteading since 2008. Still on land. The Mars colony, the uploaded consciousness, the escape from democracy, the end of mortality — always twenty years away, always just over the horizon.

But that’s the point. The exit doesn’t need to arrive for the theology to work. As long as it’s perpetually imminent, it justifies anything today.


What We’re Left With

The Californian Ideology promised liberation through technology. Disruption. Decentralization. Power to the people.

What we got was cloud capital extracting rent. Platforms replacing markets. Feudalism with better marketing.

And when you ask how they justify it, this is the answer: they built a religion where they’re the prophets and we’re too primitive to understand.

They exit from mortality while we die from preventable diseases. They exit from democracy while we lose what little voice we had. They exit from ethics while we suffer the consequences. They exit from the present while we’re trapped in it.

Stewart Brand said “We are as gods and might as well get good at it.”

Some people took him seriously.

The rest of us are living in the world they built — a world designed for their exit and our captivity.


References

Barbrook, R. & Cameron, A. (1995). The Californian Ideology. Mute Magazine.

Hirschman, A.O. (1970). Exit, Voice, and Loyalty. Harvard University Press.

Khan, L. (2017). Amazon’s Antitrust Paradox. Yale Law Journal.

Kurzweil, R. (2005). The Singularity Is Near. Viking.

McLuhan, M. (1964). Understanding Media. McGraw-Hill.

Varoufakis, Y. (2023). Technofeudalism: What Killed Capitalism. Bodley Head.

Zuboff, S. (2019). The Age of Surveillance Capitalism. PublicAffairs.

Using Dune to Analyze the Iran War

Herbert Saw It Coming. Nobody Listened.

On February 28, 2026, the United States and Israel launched nearly 900 strikes in the first twelve hours of what the Pentagon dubbed Operation Epic Fury — killing Supreme Leader Ali Khamenei in the opening wave and triggering hundreds of Iranian retaliatory missiles across the Persian Gulf. Encyclopedia Britannica

Frank Herbert saw it coming in 1965. In his 1980 essay Dune Genesis, he wrote it plainly: “The scarce water of Dune is an exact analog of oil scarcity. CHOAM is OPEC.” Tombsofkobol He published Dune eight years before the OPEC embargo made resource dependency a household terror. He’d been watching since 1953, when the CIA overthrew Iran’s democratic government to keep the oil flowing. Seventy-three years later, the same resource logic has produced an active shooting war.

This isn’t a coincidence worth remarking on. It’s a system doing exactly what systems do.

This wasn’t accidental prophecy. Herbert was doing research. He worked as a political speechwriter in Washington in the 1950s, where he observed what his son Brian later described as “the megalomania of leadership and the pitfalls of following magnetic, charming politicians.” His first novel, Dragon in the Sea (1956), was explicitly about Cold War submarine crews fighting over enemy oil reserves.

The geopolitical material was all there. In 1953, the CIA and MI6 executed Operation Ajax — overthrowing Iran’s democratically elected Prime Minister Mohammad Mossadegh and reinstalling the Shah, all to protect Anglo-American oil interests. OPEC was founded in 1960, five years before Dune hit shelves. Herbert absorbed every piece of it and built a universe around one central insight: when imperial powers fight over a desert’s most valuable resource, the desert people always pay the price.

The Harkonnen extraction regime on Arrakis isn’t metaphor. It’s history. The Anglo-Iranian Oil Company reported £40 million in after-tax profits in 1947 while paying Iran £7 million. Workers earned fifty cents a day without running water. The fiction and the facts are the same document.

[INTERNAL LINK OPPORTUNITY: link to the Silicon Valley essay when discussing imperial resource extraction and who actually profits]

Every Layer of Dune Maps Onto Iran with Uncomfortable Precision

The structure is schematic, not symbolic.

CHOAM is OPEC, Herbert told us himself. The Padishah Emperor needed the Landsraad’s cooperation to control it — just as no single Western nation could overthrow Mossadegh without a partner. The Spacing Guild’s monopoly on transportation mirrors how the Strait of Hormuz — which carries roughly 20% of global petroleum — functions as a chokepoint that constrains even the most powerful resource owners. Encyclopedia Britannica When Iran partially closed it in February 2026, oil and gas prices surged to their highest levels since the 1970s energy crisis. Wikipedia

The Fremen revolution happened twice. In 1979, Ayatollah Khomeini returned from fifteen years of exile. Millions greeted him. His rise carried explicit messianic overtones — crowds claimed his face appeared on the moon, that he was the Hidden Imam returning. A journalist noted he never claimed to be that imam, but never bothered to reject the allusion either. That calculated ambiguity is precisely Paul Atreides with the Lisan al-Gaib prophecy. The revolution that followed was immediately swallowed by war — the Iran-Iraq conflict killed up to a million people. Herbert’s warning about revolutionary fervor consuming its own people was not theoretical. It was a calendar.

Then there’s the Bene Gesserit. Their Missionaria Protectiva plants religious myths on vulnerable planets so they can be exploited later — what Herbert called “religious engineering.” Operation Ajax was the Missionaria Protectiva in action: CIA operatives planted fabricated propaganda in Iranian newspapers, posed as communists to bomb religious leaders’ homes, and bribed street mobs to manufacture the conditions for a coup. The CIA then created and trained SAVAK — Iran’s secret police — which Amnesty International later described as running one of the world’s worst human rights records. They didn’t force compliance. They engineered the cultural conditions so the myths became self-sustaining. The Bene Gesserit genius. The Langley playbook.

The Resource That Makes You Powerful Is the Same One That Destroys You

Academic economists have a term for it: the resource curse. Countries rich in natural resources tend to end up with weaker institutions, more corruption, and greater conflict than countries without them. Iran is the textbook case. Oil revenue funded the Shah’s authoritarian modernization and the Islamic Republic’s repression apparatus with equal enthusiasm. The rentier state theory explains the mechanism: when governments derive revenue from oil rather than taxation, citizens lose their leverage. No taxation, no representation. The resource that makes Iran strategically vital to the entire world is the same resource that invites foreign intervention, funds its own oppressors, and keeps its people poor.

This is Dune‘s central mechanism. The spice makes Arrakis the most important planet in the universe and the most miserable place to live. Herbert knew. He told us.

The uncomfortable question isn’t whether Dune predicted the Iran war. It’s why seventy years of warnings produced the same outcome anyway. Herbert’s answer was grim: we don’t follow charismatic leaders into disaster by accident. We do it because the systems that produce those leaders are designed to make the alternative unthinkable.

The full podcast episode goes deeper — the history, the parallels, and what Herbert’s warning actually means for what comes next.

Sources

Primary Texts

Herbert, Frank. “Dune Genesis.” Omni, Vol. 2, No. 2, July 1980, p. 72.

Herbert, Frank. Dune. Chilton Books, 1965.

The 2026 Iran War

Encyclopaedia Britannica. “2026 Iran War.” Britannica.com, last updated April 25, 2026. https://www.britannica.com/event/2026-Iran-war

Wikipedia. “2026 Iran War.” Last modified April 2026. https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/2026_Iran_war

NPR. “The U.S. and Israel Launch a Major Attack on Iran.” February 28, 2026. https://www.npr.org/2026/02/28/nx-s1-5730333/

U.S. Department of State, Office of the Legal Adviser. “Operation Epic Fury and International Law.” April 2026. https://www.state.gov/releases/office-of-the-legal-adviser/2026/04/operation-epic-fury-and-international-law/

Historical Context

Wikiquote. “Frank Herbert.” https://en.wikiquote.org/wiki/Frank_Herbert

Academic Sources

Ross, Michael L. “Does Oil Hinder Democracy?” World Politics, Vol. 53, No. 3, April 2001, pp. 325–361.

Karl, Terry Lynn. The Paradox of Plenty: Oil Booms and Petro-States. University of California Press, 1997.

Said, Edward W. Orientalism. Pantheon Books, 1978.

Herman, Edward S., and Noam Chomsky. Manufacturing Consent: The Political Economy of the Mass Media. Pantheon Books, 1988.