Some Thoughts on Modernity
On compression, neurodivergence, and what comes next
Phase 1: Embedded Complexity
Humans have been around for about 300,000 years. For almost all of that, we lived in small groups โ maybe 20 to 150 people. No bosses, no kings, no landlords.
Not because people were naturally nice, but because the group actively stopped anyone from taking control. If someone got too big for themselves, they got mocked, shunned, or worse. Anthropologists call this "reverse dominance hierarchy" โ the group collectively dominates would-be dominators.
Here's the thing: nature is complex. Living in it, as part of it, required complexity. People who noticed patterns others missed. People who couldn't stop asking questions. People who didn't just go along with things. People who had spiky profiles โ really good at some things, really bad at others. People who picked up the smallest sounds, saw the minute details in the tracks, catalogued the changing of the seasons.
That was fine. Actually, it was essential. The environment itself was spiky. It was weird, unpredictable, and had a billion moving pieces interacting chaotically. This is where we thrived, because we don't get intimidated by complexity; we are drawn to it. We are compelled to break it down, to understand it, to inhabit it.
There was no pressure to be a generalist, interchangeable unit. You could just be what you were, and the group was all the better for it.
People like us โ neurodivergent people โ we had roles. Very important roles: the keepers, the braiders, the hunters, the tellers of complexity. We belonged.
Phase 2: Compression
Then, around 10,000 years ago, something changed. Some groups started farming grain and staying in one place.
Grain can be stored. Counted. Taxed.
Suddenly you could accumulate surplus. And whoever controlled the surplus had power. For the first time, that power could outlast a single person. It could become a system. And loyalty to the system was bought.
This is where the extraction-protection racket emerges. A class of people who extract surplus from the producers, and "protect" them in exchange (often from threats the extractors themselves create). It's the basic engine of what we call civilization.
But here's what this required: legibility. Control. Interchangeable units.
You can't run a grain empire on a thousand different human shapes. You need peasants who farm, soldiers who fight, priests who legitimize. You need people to fit roles. The roles come first; the people get compressed into them.
Complexity became a threat. Flatten it. Enforce normal. Anyone who didn't fit the mold wasn't just inconvenient โ they were dangerous to the system. Shamans became witches. Questioners became heretics. Difference got pathologized, exiled, or eliminated.
This is when neurodivergent people stopped belonging.
Phase 3: Contorted Re-complexification
Fast forward a few thousand years. The extraction-protection racket kept evolving. Empires rose and fell. Feudalism. Colonialism. Capitalism. Democracy.
And somewhere along the way, the machine got sophisticated.
It discovered something: it could extract more value by allowing some complexity back in. Not because it learned to value difference. Because specialized workers produce more than interchangeable ones. Knowledge economies need pattern-seers. Innovation requires people who don't just follow the script. To extract even more complex things from nature, you need someone who understands nature intimately.
So complexity returned โ but contorted. Twisted into a shape that serves the accumulation loop.
Now some spikes get rewarded. If your particular brand of neurodivergence makes you a good programmer, analyst, artist, forester, or systems thinker โ welcome back! Conditionally. You're valued when your difference produces value.
But you're still pathologized when your difference has needs. The celebration of neurodiversity and the expectation to mask aren't contradictory. They're the same system saying: give us the good parts, hide the rest.
This is where we are now.
It's genuinely better than Phase 2. I can live in a big and diverse metropolis, pursue work that fits my brain, find other people like me. I'm not conscripted into a grain field or burned as a witch. That's real improvement.
But it's instrumental improvement. We got accidentally reintegrated โ not because the system learned to see us as full humans, but because its complexity happened to create niches that fit some of our shapes. It's exploitation that sometimes feels like belonging.
And here's the catch: this whole system still revolves around a single attractor. Accumulation. Growth. The pie must always get bigger.
The thing is, you don't need a villain twirling a mustache anymore. You just need people following procedures. Normal people doing normal jobs can produce horrific outcomes โ and nobody feels responsible because everyone was just following the rules.
That's what changed. Domination became infrastructure. And everyone has a vested interest in keeping it running, because when the pie grows as a whole, so does their tiny piece of it.
Phase 4: Collapse
The machine is hitting limits.
This is Joseph Tainter's point: complexity is a problem-solving strategy, but it has diminishing returns and escalating maintenance costs. Eventually, the society can't maintain the complexity it's built. It simplifies โ sometimes gradually, sometimes catastrophically.
Our particular machine runs on fossil fuels and infinite growth, and both are running out. Ecological overshoot. Systems too interconnected to manage. Problems generating faster than solutions. Eventually, it exceeds even us complexity-speakers' combined capacity to troubleshoot.
I don't know exactly what happens next. But the thing that's been running for a few thousand years is hitting walls it can't grow past.
This isn't hope. Collapse is brutal. The people who dominate now will try to dominate the ruins too. It's just... what's happening.
So What Do We Do?
Honestly? We do what humans have always done.
We find each other. We take care of each other in real, small ways. We see the systems clearly so they can't trick us. We grieve what's ending, because it deserves grief. And we love anyway โ not because it wins, but because that's what people like us have always done.
Our brains that don't fit the machine? They might be what helps us see it coming. The same traits that got us accidentally reintegrated into Phase 3 โ pattern recognition, not swallowing the script, modeling systems โ might be exactly what's useful for navigating Phase 4.
We've been practicing "the normal thing isn't working, what's the alternative?" our whole lives.
That's the whole thing. We're not broken. We just got born at a weird inflection point โ late enough in the cycle to be conditionally valued, early enough to watch it unravel.
Our job is to remember how to be human while it falls apart.
And maybe, in the cracks, to remember what embedded, natural complexity felt like. Small groups. Mutual aid. Roles that fit people instead of people compressed into roles.
Not because we'll rebuild paradise. But because it's the only thing that ever actually worked.
Thanks for reading. Let me know if any of this makes sense.
Threads: why compression serves the enemy โ the internalized master โ the inaccessibility problem โ truth as a tool for conviviality โ what to do with a spiky brain โ none of this makes sense โ I did the "finding each other" โ the spiky brain in the personal scale โ why we find each other, and what awaits โ