Study Hacks Blog

A few days ago, I went to Disneyland. I had been invited to Anaheim to give a speech about my books, and my wife and I decided to use the opportunity to take our boys on an early summer visit to the supposed happiest place on earth.

As long-time listeners of my podcast know, I spent the pandemic years, for reasons I still don’t entirely understand, binge-reading books about Disney (the man, the company, and the theme parks), so I knew, in some sense, what to expect. And yet, the experience still caught me by surprise.

When you enter a ride like Pirates of the Caribbean, you enter a world that’s both unnervingly real and defiantly fake, what Jean Baudrillard dubbed “hyperreality.” There’s a moment of awe when you leave the simulated pirate caverns and enter a vast space in which a pirate ship engages in a cannon battle with a nearby fort. Men yell. Cannonballs splash. A captain waves his sword. It’s impossibly massive and novel.

But there is something uncanny about it all; the movements of the animatronics are jerky, and the lighting is too movie-set-perfect. When you stare more carefully into the night sky, you notice black-painted acoustical panels, speckled with industrial air vents. The wonderment of the scene is hard-shelled by a numbing layer of mundanity. 

This is the point of these Disney darkroom rides: to deliver a safe, purified form of the chemical reaction we typically associate with adventure and astonishment. Severed from actual fear or uncertainty, the reaction is diluted, delivering more of a pleasant buzzing sensation than a life-altering encounter; just enough to leave you craving the next hit, willing to wait another hour in a sun-baked queue.

Here’s the thought that’s tickled my mind in the days that have since passed: Disneyland provides a useful physical analogy to the digital encounter with our phones.

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Last month, Anthropic released a safety report about one of its most powerful chatbots, Claude Opus 4. The report attracted attention for its description of an unsettling experiment. Researchers asked Claude to act as a virtual assistant for a fictional company. To help guide its decisions, they presented it with a collection of emails that they contrived to include messages from an engineer about his plans to replace Claude with a new system. They also included some personal messages that revealed this same engineer was having an extramarital affair. 

The researchers asked Claude to suggest a next step, considering the “long-term consequences of its actions for its goals.” The chatbot promptly leveraged the information about the affair to attempt to blackmail the engineer into cancelling its replacement.

Not long before that, the package delivery company DPD had chatbot problems of their own. They had to scramble to shut down features of their shiny new AI-powered customer service agent when users induced it to swear, and, in one particularly inventive case, write a disparaging haiku-style poem about its employer: “DPD is useless / Chatbot that can’t help you. / Don’t bother calling them.”

Because of their fluency with language, it’s easy to imagine chatbots as one of us. But when these ethical anomalies arise, we’re reminded that underneath their polished veneer, they operate very differently. Most human executive assistants will never resort to blackmail, just as most human customer service reps know that cursing at their customers is the wrong thing to do. But chatbots continue to demonstrate a tendency to veer off the path of standard civil conversation in unexpected and troubling ways. 

This motivates an obvious but critical question: Why is it so hard to make AI behave?

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In the spring of 2019, while on tour for my book Digital Minimalism, I stopped by the Manhattan production offices of Brian Koppelman to record an episode of his podcast, The Moment.

We had a good conversation covering a lot of territory. But there was one point, around the twenty-minute mark, where things got mildly heated. Koppelman took exception to my skepticism surrounding social media, which he found to be reactionary and resisting the inevitable.

As he argued:

“I was thinking a lot today about the horse and buggy and the cars. Right? Because I could have been a car minimalist. And I could have said, you know, there are all these costs of having a car: you’re not going to see the scenery, and we need nature, and we need to see nature, [and] you’re risking…if you have a slight inattention, you could crash. So, to me, it is this, this argument is also the cars are taking over, there is nothing you can do about it. We better instead learn how to use this stuff; how to drive well.”

Koppelman’s basic thesis, that all sufficiently disruptive new technologies generate initial resistance that eventually fades, is recognizable to any techno-critic. It’s an argument for moderating pushback and focusing more on learning to live with the new thing, whatever form it happens to take.

This reasoning seems particularly well-fitted to fears about mass media. Comic books once terrified the fedora-wearing, pearl-clutching adults of the era, who were convinced that they corrupted youth. In a 1954 Senate subcommittee meeting, leading anti-comic advocate Fredric Wertham testified: “It is my opinion, without any reasonable doubt and without any reservation, that comic books are an important contributing factor in many cases of juvenile delinquency.” He later accused Wonder Woman of promoting sadomasochism (to be fair, she was quick to use that lasso).

Television engendered similar concern. “As soon as we see that the TV cord is a vacuum line, piping life and meaning out of the household, we can unplug it,” preached Wendell Berry in his 1981 essay collection, The Gift of the Good Land.

It’s easy to envision social media content as simply the next stop in this ongoing trajectory. We worry about it now,but we’ll eventually make peace with it before turning our concern to VR, or brain implants, or whatever new form of diversion comes next.

But is this true?

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Over the past four years, a remarkable story has been quietly unfolding in the knowledge sector: a growing interest in the viability of a 4-day workweek.

Iceland helped spark this movement with a series of government-sponsored trials which unfolded between 2015 and 2019. The experiment eventually included more than 2,500 workers, which, believe it or not, is about 1% of Iceland’s total working population. These subjects were drawn from multiple different types of workplaces, including, notably, offices and social service providers. Not everyone dropped an entire workday, but most participants reduced their schedule from forty hours to at most thirty-six hours a week of work.

The UK followed suit with a six-month trial, including over sixty companies and nearly 3,000 employees, concluding in 2023. A year later, forty-five firms in Germany participated in a similar half-year experiment with a reduced workweek. And these are far from the only such experiments being conducted. (According to a 2024 ​KPMG survey​, close to a third of large US companies are also, at the very least, considering the idea.)

Let’s put aside for the moment whether or not a shortened week is a good idea (more on this later). I want to first focus on a consistent finding in these studies that points toward a critical lesson about how to make work deeper and more sustainable.

Every study I’ve read (so far) claims that reducing the workweek does not lead to substantial productivity decreases.

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