The Plague of Pointless Output
How to keep your judgment when machines optimize for speed
Oh, the sheer, miserable joy of the reflexive response. The digital equivalent of a startled rabbit bolting across the road and achieving absolutely nothing but a near-death experience.
AI has given us the terrible power of instantaneous communication. It can smooth out your grammar, polish your tone, and generate a perfectly adequate reply to Brenda in Accounts about the stationary budget before you’ve even fully registered her original, deeply tedious query. It’s made it so pathetically easy to respond that you’ve entirely forgotten to ask the only question that matters: Should I?
We’re drowning in this ghastly, self-generated digital pollution. Most of the time, we’re not engaging in actual, meaningful communication; we’re just participating in a collective, continuous act of administrative flinching.
Does this email need sending? Does this Teams message need writing? Does this completely unnecessary, half-hour, six-person meeting need scheduling?
In the old days, the analogue slow days, the sheer effort involved in writing and sending something acted as a natural filter. You had to find the envelope, locate a stamp, and perhaps endure the terrifying journey to a postbox. That friction forced a moment of reflection: Is this worth the hassle?
Now, with AI clearing the minimal effort hurdle, the floodgates are open, and we’re just pouring endless cups of tepid water into an ocean already overflowing with pointless correspondence. You’re not being efficient; you’re just manufacturing noise. You’re moving fast because fast feels productive, even if you’re only speeding up the journey to an utterly meaningless destination.
We mistake movement for progress, a mental affliction as chronic and depressing as a persistent, low-grade headache.
So, here’s the challenge, you magnificent, overworked, reflex-driven creature. This week, I want you to send half as many emails.
Don’t be rude, obviously. Don’t just ignore your boss or fail to forward that vital attachment. But be selective. For every correspondence, pause. Ask yourself: Will the world actually cease to rotate if I simply don’t press ‘Send’? Is this truly a requirement, or is it just a reflex, a nervous twitch, a fear of the empty inbox?
Most correspondence, I guarantee, is simply reflex, not requirement. Break the reflex. Create a gap. Let the silence hang in the air for a bit. It’ll feel unnatural, like leaving the house without your phone, but it might just give the rest of us a chance to breathe.