Ancient Self-Knowledge and Human Freedom in the Age of the Algorithm

Whew… what a week. I’m sorry I didn’t get this post out yesterday, like I usually do. I’ve been away in Colorado for a retreat with my Men’s Peer Group – https://menspeergroups.com/

The past few days have been inspiring, emotional, motivational, confrontational, and full of masculine energy. We practiced the archetypes of King, Warrior, Magician, and Lover in a way that allowed each one of us to embody these principles, and ideally take them home for the betterment of our selves, our families, and our communities.

But I still have a lot to integrate. And sitting in the Denver International Airport, as I am right now, is NOT a place for effective integration. And being in the high desert of southwest Colorado was NOT a place to access the internet. So, again, I apologize for not getting this to you yesterday. I actually wrote it last week – after returning from the Viktor Frankl World Congress of Logotherapy. If you’ll remember, my daughter and I attended quite a few presentations, and of all the presentations we heard, we both agreed that one of the most thought-provoking came from Cristina Cox: “Ancient Self-Knowledge and Human Freedom in the Age of the Algorithm.”

Cox began with an ancient idea: the instruction inscribed at Delphi to “know thyself.” But she contrasted that kind of self-knowledge with the strange new way algorithms have come to “know” us.

An algorithm learns us through our clicks, searches, likes, pauses, preferences, and repeated behaviors. Given enough data, it becomes remarkably good at predicting what will capture our attention next.

But Cox raised a fascinating question:

Does an algorithm knowing your patterns mean it knows you?

Ancient self-knowledge meant something very different. It involved examining our assumptions, recognizing our desires and limitations, asking not merely “What do I prefer?” but “What is good?”—and then accepting responsibility for how we choose to live. whova_file_ca1f9470-bd61-4377-a…

That’s an important distinction.

Your algorithm may know that after watching one video, you’re likely to watch another. It may know what makes you angry, what makes you laugh, what keeps you scrolling, and what you’re likely to buy.

But those patterns describe what you have done.

They don’t necessarily determine who you can become.

Cox connected this beautifully with Frankl’s understanding of human freedom. She argued that an algorithm’s ability to predict our behavior doesn’t eliminate our freedom. Freedom begins when we become aware of the pattern and decide whether or not we want to repeat it. whova_file_ca1f9470-bd61-4377-a…

In other words, there is tremendous psychological and existential significance in something very small:

The pause.

Something catches my attention.

I feel the impulse to click.

To scroll.

To respond.

To buy.

To compare.

To become outraged.

And then, perhaps, I pause long enough to ask:

Is this actually where I want my attention to go?

Cox described this through what she calls Attention-Transcendence, building upon Frankl’s concept of self-transcendence. Rather than allowing our attention to be continually drawn back toward ourselves and whatever an algorithm has learned will capture us, we deliberately direct it toward a person, a task, a value, an experience, or something meaningful beyond ourselves. whova_file_ca1f9470-bd61-4377-a…

I love that idea.

Because the answer isn’t to throw away our phones, abandon technology, or pretend we’re going back to a world before algorithms.

Cox put it much better:

“The aim is not to escape from technology. It is authorship of the relationship.” whova_file_ca1f9470-bd61-4377-a…

That word—authorship—has stayed with me.

Who is authoring where your attention goes?

Because attention is not an insignificant thing. Our attention becomes our minutes. Our minutes become our days. And our days eventually become our lives.

Perhaps that’s also why I keep thinking about my daughter.

She came to Chicago expecting to hear her dad give a presentation and then go home.

Instead, something caught her attention.

She became curious.

She stayed.

She listened.

She met people she never expected to meet. She participated in conversations she hadn’t planned to have. And she experienced ideas that she was still talking about with me on the drive home.

For a few days, at least, her next experience wasn’t being selected because it resembled the one before it.

She followed curiosity into something new.

And perhaps that’s one small example of the freedom Cox was describing.

Near the end of her presentation, she offered what I think may have been the most hopeful idea of all:

“The capacity for interruption is a source of hope because we are more than data.” whova_file_ca1f9470-bd61-4377-a…

I think Frankl would have appreciated that.

Our past matters. Our habits matter. Our environment matters. Technology influences us. Algorithms can become remarkably good at predicting what we’re likely to do next.

But prediction is not destiny.

There remains within us the capacity to pause, to notice, to reconsider, and to direct our attention toward something worthwhile.

So perhaps that’s the question for this week:

What is getting your attention—and is it worthy of it?

Maybe put down the phone.

Interrupt the pattern.

Have the conversation.

Read the book.

Take the walk.

Stay for the extra day.

Because you are more than the sum of your previous choices.

You are more than your clicks.