Can Claude be your boyfriend?

The attention economy is coming for your intimacy, too

I met a friend for coffee a few weeks ago, and we joked around about her ‘new boyfriend.’ His name is Claude, and he’s an AI-bot. A few days later, I stumbled upon an article about how Claude has become the chatbot of choice. I sent it to my friend, who cheekily replied, “What?!? He’s been with.. others?!?”

Of course, the conversation was all in jest. But the truth to it was that the Internet, and now artificial intelligence, are creating fundamental shifts in our economy and our relationships. AI sucks up an enormous amounts of resources— to the tune of 1% of global energy consumption (so far) and literally millions of gallons of drinkable water for cooling systems— that I find truly horrendous. But I’m also concerned about the ways that AI reveals what big tech really wants: Our attention, yes, but also our companionship.

I recently worked my way through a stellar book by MSNBC host Chris Hayes, The Sirens Call: How Attention Became the World’s Most Endangered Resource. This instant New York Times bestseller (it came out like two weeks ago, y’all) argues that we’ve undergone a seismic shift into the ‘information age.’ In the information age, the cost to companies trying to acquire our attention is virtually zero (pennies for a sponsored ad, anyone?) but the personal cost of our lost attention is significant. In fact, Hayes argues that attention has become the most valuable resource of the modern world.

We want connection, but we’ll settle for attention

Hayes notes from the get-go that we don’t actually want attention, we want connection. We want to be seen and understood by the people around us.

You may have heard this before in the context of parenting— our little ones, from a crying infant to a defiant toddler, “aren’t attention-seeking, they are connection seeking”— and its been enormously helpful advice for me personally. But it also rings true for adults. We don’t just want people to vaguely know who we are, we want them to understand us. Hayes argues that “we crave attention as a means to an end, but when starved we accept it as an end in itself.” In Hayes’ view, this explains the rise of the megalomaniacs currently hijacking everything from our social media feeds to our federal government.

Real relationships come with friction. Even in my closest and most intimate relationships, I am not ‘understood’ 100 percent of the time. One friend gets ‘Jen-with-political-angst,’ another gets ‘Jen-who-compulsively-offers-to-help,’ and yet another gets ‘what-good-books-are-you-reading-Jen’. It’s not to say these world never collide, but when they do, it’s sometimes pretty clumsy. In a particularly cringe-worthy example, I delivered bagels the day after the election to some new neighbors who I’d never once talked politics with. I literally planned to drop bagels on their doorstep with a quick text, so when the door swung open, I stumbled over an explanation: “I think I just want to say I’m sorry for our country, if it’s something you feel upset about too? Anyway here’s some bagels.” My reaction in that moment was so incredibly awkward that telling the story in real life elicits actual squeals of laughter. But this messiness is not only what makes us human, it’s also what deepens our connection to other humans.

Social media has been terrifyingly adept at making us feel like other people know our names. You can amass hundreds or even thousands of followers— never mind that most of them at this point are likely bots— who watch your skincare routine or ogle at your Insta-worthy bedroom decor. But what scares me is that artificial intelligence is selling us something that, on the surface, appears to be even more. Instagram and TikTok influencers quickly realized that their followers don’t know them; followers only know an influencer’s brand collaborations and the highly edited tidbits an influencer chooses to share. But AI is promising someone— or rather, something— who is willing to listen to and validate your every impulse. It’s more than happy to let you spiral into anxiety or give you questionable advice. It promises you instantaneous deep connection (albeit with a computer system) anytime you want it, without any real effort on your part. There’s no friction or human back and forth, no “did you remember to take out the trash?” as a barrier to intimacy. But let’s not forget that AI could care less if you tuck your kids in at night.

The algorithms are more than happy to let you spiral

Hayes argues that we spend enormous amounts of “unrequited social attention” focusing on people who don’t even know us, ranging from politicians to celebrities and TikTok influencers. This is, of course, not an entirely new phenomenon: People were obsessed with Elvis Presley and Marilyn Monroe well before the advent of the Internet. But there is a substantial difference between a fascination with a movie star that you see a few times a year on the big screen and the compulsive desire to check in daily with a host of TikTok personalities.

A reminder, too, that algorithms feed you whatever content they think will keep you ‘hooked’— because the longer you scroll, the more money big corporations make. It doesn’t matter if this content radicalizes individuals or destabilizes elections, as long as your attention is focused on the app.

And these AI-powered “algorithms”— broadly meant to refer to the platform-determined, individualized feed on anything from Facebook to Instagram to the Substack Explore feature— can feed us some terrifying stuff. I’ve been struggling to open my Substack app to answer notifications (my sincere apologies if I was late in a reply!) for all the generally expected reasons— relentless waves of toddler illness, etc.— but also because the Substack algorithm is somehow under the impression that I want to see news about a literal apocalypse. Like, “how to survive as the last humans on Earth” kinda stuff. And let me tell you, not only is this content nonsensical, but my heart just can’t handle that level of fear-mongering while cuddling the little lives I brought into this world.

There is good and important work being done on this platform, work for which I am extremely thankful. But the work of Substack as a newsletter platform is separate and distinct from the gimmicky feed that attempts to divert our attentional resources. And on other platforms, where creators are not directly compensated by readers/ viewers for their content, the only currency is the viewer’s attention and its theoretical ability to translate into sponsorships (while, obviously, racking up billions in advertising revenue for social media companies).

It’s computer systems, not people, who are determining what we see. The computer systems’ only goal is to continue to monopolize our attention, and to erode our personal health and real life connections in favor of the algorithm. Before you tell me this sounds dramatic, bear with me: Our attention is a finite resource. I have 24 hours in a given day, who know how many days in this one wild and precious life. To devote any attention at all to an algorithm is to decide not to devote attention elsewhere, whether that elsewhere is cooking dinner, going for a walk, or grabbing coffee with a friend.

Media companies have been clear that their actual competitors are not each other, but any analog activity we might want to do. In 2017, the chief executive of Netflix was even upfront in telling investors that the company was “competing with sleep.” In the years since, companies have become even more adept at using AI to send us down obscure internet and entertainment rabbit holes with dire consequences. In a particularly poignant example, Hayes argues that people are often alarmed by an Orwellian notion (that, to be clear, is currently playing out in real life) that books will be banned, when perhaps we should be more alarmed by the possibility of a population who isn’t interested enough in books for them to warrant banning.

Where is the attention economy headed?

I think it’s really important to note here that, increasingly, the most prominent forms of communication between individuals are now mediated through platforms— Meta, TikTok, Snapchat, X, even your e-mail server— that exist for the sole purpose of profiting off your attention.

This doesn’t mean that the analog doesn’t want your attention too. As just one example, junk mail made up roughly 1/4 of mail deliveries in 1972; by 2019, it accounted for nearly 2/3 of what showed up in our mailbox (Hayes). But unlike the digital, our physical mailboxes aren’t an ever-changing slot machine of flashing lights, disappearing reels, and “12 hour only!” sales. And in the analog, I can have a conversation with a friend or loved one without being distracted by 50 open tabs or aggravating pop-up notifications.

Hayes argues that “to be online is to constantly see yourself through the gaze of others.” What you create online is not the ‘real’ you; whether you are an ordinary person trying to post authentically or an influencer leveraging vulnerability for social currency, your online presence is not a full and complete representation of who you are. That’s probably for the best. But crucially, your value in this online space is seemingly determined by clicks, likes, and shares— digital validation. And to some degree, it doesn’t even matter if the ‘people’ giving us online validation are real humans (although it would be nice if they were) or AI-powered bots. That Twitter fight you had? Might have been with a bot. Lots of Reddit upvotes? Could be from a bot. In fact, roughly half of all Internet traffic at this point comes from… you guessed it, AI-powered bots.

AI is already pushing the boundaries of our real-life relationships too. Companion dolls from companies like RealDoll X (I’m NOT looking forward to the advertisements I’ll get after investigating this) pair attractive silicone life-sized dolls with an AI personality and encourage you to take him/ her out to dinner. Deepfake images of individuals from Taylor Swift to teenagers violate our individual privacy and ability to selectively choose who sees any rendering— real or fake— of our physical form. I’m imagining a future where AI-Claude isn’t just a cute online companion, but is also whispering product recommendations in our ear, convincing us to purchase ever-more junk while sinking ever-more attention into the digital abyss.

I’m not a Luddite railing against every technological innovation; used intentionally, artificial intelligence can improve health outcomes and assist scientific discoveries. But much as how the Internet offers unlimited access to human knowledge and we mostly use it to scroll cat videos, I’m concerned about the ways that this technology separates us from the things and connections that make us human.

I’m tired of tacitly endorsing the sale of my attention to computer systems who could care less. I’m angry that bots are given free-reign to disrupt our moods and sow disinformation that threatens our political system. We’ve given free reign to technology companies making billions of dollars at the expense of people and at the expense of real-life communities. Sure, AI boyfriends are nice, but not if we collectively lose sight of the magic (and messiness) of real life connections. And as Chris Hayes so eloquently argues, we simply can’t afford to continue tacitly endorsing a system that sells everything that makes us human— our attention and our intimacy— to the highest bidder.

P.S. It’s always a good week when I have some ‘opt-out’ literature in my rotation— in addition to The Sirens Call, I finally read Erin Loechner’s The Opt-Out Family. I’ll be sharing some practical takeaways from this fantastic read soon— subscribe to get it right in your inbox!