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The Waymo effect: how AI is quietly making research less collaborative
How frictionless technologies teach us to prefer our own company – and why research leaders should worry.
On a recent trip to San Francisco I did the thing that every visitor to San Francisco now does: I summoned a car with no one in it.
The Waymo arrived with the serene confidence of a machine that has never once worried about where to find parking, and I climbed into the back seat, glanced instinctively at the driver’s seat to say hello, and found myself nodding politely at an empty chair. The steering wheel turned itself. I have spent a reasonable portion of my life thinking about counterintuitive aspects of physics, but that did not help me with the mild existential vertigo of watching a steering wheel moving on its own – an unseen driver responsible for my safety.
I was in San Francisco, in part, to spend time with Susan Winslow, CEO of Macmillan Learning. We are colleagues within the Holtzbrinck group, and we had come together for the most human of professional reasons: to collaborate. To sit in the same room, compare notes on how AI is reshaping our respective corners of research and education, and do the kind of thinking that is stubbornly difficult to do over video calls.
And yet, comparing notes on our Waymo experiences, we discovered we agreed on something else entirely: the rides were wonderful. As two self-confessed introverts, we had each found the driverless car to be a small oasis. No obligation to make conversation. No silent negotiation over the radio. A guilt-free space to be alone with one's thoughts, finish an email, or take a call en route without the awkwardness about conducting it in front of a stranger. The car was quiet, smooth and entirely undemanding.
It took us slightly longer to name what we had lost. Two people who had crossed continents to talk to each other were quietly delighted by a technology whose central feature is that you don’t have to talk to anyone.
Let me attempt a definition: the Waymo effect is what happens when a technology removes the friction of dealing with another human being, and we experience that removal as pure gain – because the costs of the friction were always visible to us, while its benefits were not.
This is a familiar move for anyone who has read Tim Wu on “the tyranny of convenience” – his argument that once a frictionless option exists, we take it by default, and quietly surrender whatever the friction was doing for us, since nobody advertised it as valuable in the first place. Albert Borgmann’s related idea of the device paradigm goes a step further: a device delivers a commodity – warmth, information, companionship – while concealing the practice that once had to be undertaken to earn it, so that we stop noticing the practice has gone at all. Only the commodity keeps arriving.
The costs of talking to a taxi driver are obvious: the small effort of politeness, the conversational roulette, the introvert’s tax of sustained small talk at 7am. The benefits are diffuse and deferred: the driver was, for many of us on many days, the last stranger we were obliged to encounter. The last person from outside our bubble – professionally, politically, socially – with whom we had an unchosen conversation. The last reliable source of a view we did not ask for.
Neither Susan nor I would design a world without those conversations. We simply enjoyed opting out of this one. And that, of course, is how such things are lost: never by decision, always by convenience. One comfortable ride at a time.