Winners, Losers, and Knowledge Monopolies
Neil Postman’s Technopoly: The Surrender of Culture to Technology begins with a striking myth about the Egyptian god Theuth, who presents his invention of writing to King Thamus. Theuth proclaims writing to be an incomparable gift: a remedy for faulty memory and a gateway to knowledge. Thamus, however, rebukes Theuth, warning that writing will produce only the semblance of wisdom and diminish our capacity for true recollection. The king’s verdict is famously imbalanced — he views writing solely as a burden, with no thought for its genuine benefits. But this imbalance, Postman argues, is still on display whenever society greets new technologies with only excitement, neglecting to ask how they may alter or undermine our human lives.
At first glance, technology is indeed our friend, delivering conveniences once unimaginable. From the earliest crude hand tools that saved physical effort, to modern-day smartphones that shrink entire libraries and communication networks into our pockets, human beings have consistently embraced innovations that promise to streamline routines and expand horizons. In fact, the history of technology often reads like a series of blessings: the printing press making knowledge widely accessible; the electric light extending productivity beyond daylight hours; vaccines and antibiotics stretching our lifespans. These accomplishments reflect our astonishing capacity to shape the environment to our advantage. It is no small wonder that so many people view technology with reverence.
Yet Postman insists on recognizing the other side of this coin, which he calls the “dangerous enemy” aspect of technology. While each invention confers tangible gifts, it also exacts costs that are not always apparent at first. The mechanical clock, for instance, was originally developed in medieval monasteries to ensure strict adherence to prayer hours. But soon enough, merchants adopted clock technology to schedule labor more precisely, tightening the synchronization of the workday and standardizing production. What had begun as a tool for religious devotion was co-opted by economic interests, fueling the growth of modern capitalism. The clock, Postman points out, did not only help people measure time; it radically changed their experience of time. By dividing life into uniform segments that needed to be tracked and “saved,” it subtly reoriented society’s priorities toward productivity and away from reflection.
Such shifts are almost never neutral, and they often occur beneath the surface. Technology, as Postman sees it, does not merely add options to our menu of choices; it reformulates the menu itself. Writing — the very invention Thamus criticized — would eventually enable humanity’s greatest literary triumphs and sharpen new forms of analysis, but it also diminished the kind of active, oral memory traditions that once bound communities together. Likewise, the modern computer has empowered individuals and organizations to handle colossal volumes of information at lightning speed, generating everything from advanced medical diagnostics to instant global connectivity. But alongside these marvels, we find a pervasive reliance on quantification and an erosion of the intangible qualities that numbers cannot capture: wisdom, empathy, and ethical discernment.
Postman’s wider message is that any technology allowed to unfold without critical scrutiny risks becoming a tyrant rather than a servant. When society collectively celebrates a dazzling new device or discovery, it rarely pauses to ask how this novelty might be redefining core elements of humanity: our sense of time, memory, relationships, morality, or meaning. He underscores that modern culture is especially susceptible because technological innovation has grown so swift and totalizing, and because the benefits are indeed so bountiful. It is this bounty, ironically, that lulls us into obedience, trusting technology to dictate the shape of our lives.
Knowledge Monopolies
Neil Postman’s observation that every technology creates “winners and losers” challenges the widespread assumption that progress is invariably a tide lifting all boats. He draws on the work of Harold Innis to illustrate how technological shifts reconfigure social power dynamics. When a tool or system becomes indispensable, those who control it gain prestige and authority, while those excluded from it often see their influence dwindle.
A classic historical example is the printing press. Before its invention, churches and royal courts dominated the flow of religious and political information. Scribes who could painstakingly copy texts held positions of special respect. Then, as Gutenberg’s press spread throughout Europe, literacy rates began to rise and religious hierarchies lost their monopoly on scriptural interpretation. The “winners” of this shift were individuals and groups that harnessed print to spread new ideas — such as Martin Luther, who famously declared printing to be “God’s highest act of grace.” In that sense, the press empowered a broad public, but it also spawned a new elite: skilled printers, publishers, and authors, who became gatekeepers of the burgeoning book market. For many centuries, access to the machinery of print — and the literacy required to benefit from it — conferred disproportionate cultural capital.
This pattern repeats whenever a major technology reaches critical mass. Consider Galileo’s advocacy of mathematics as the “language of nature.” Over time, this numerical lens became a primary way of understanding and measuring reality. Consequently, those with mathematical and scientific training acquired a new level of influence over everything from navigation to medical breakthroughs to national policy. We see echoes of this today in the domain of computer science. Programmers, data scientists, and AI specialists hold the keys to crucial software infrastructures. Their expertise translates into economic power, professional prestige, and decision-making clout — especially in societies that rely heavily on digital platforms for commerce and communication.
Postman emphasizes that the rest of us often applaud these developments because the benefits seem tangible: faster research, cheaper goods, instant connectivity. Yet we may fail to notice that such transformations also place enormous authority in the hands of an expert class. When entire industries hinge upon software or advanced engineering, the broader population can become dependent on a relatively small group who speak a specialized technical language. Not only do they shape the flow of information, they can set standards, redefine professional norms, and determine what knowledge is seen as valid or important.
In other words, a “knowledge monopoly” emerges, akin to the ancient scribes who had the rare skill of reading and writing. It is entirely possible that new winners — programmers, data analysts, technology entrepreneurs — may create tools ostensibly for public benefit, while also deepening social inequalities. Worse yet, many of the people left behind might still welcome these changes, dazzled by gadgets and breakthroughs while remaining excluded from their creation and governance.
For Postman, vigilance is key. The task is not to reject technological advances but to recognize the unequal distribution of power they can bring. If our aim is a democratic society, we should seek ways to ensure that new technologies do not remain the exclusive domain of a privileged few. Rather, we should strive to broaden access, understanding, and decision-making about the technologies that shape modern life. By doing so, we acknowledge that every tool must be managed wisely, lest it evolve into yet another mechanism for concentrating authority in the hands of “the winners.”
Breaking down Technopoly
Neil Postman’s concept of “Technopoly” describes far more than just a society saturated with machinery; rather, it names a cultural mindset that grants technology ultimate authority over how we understand knowledge, morality, and human purpose. In earlier eras, people relied on religious or philosophical frameworks to make sense of their triumphs and tragedies. Postman argues that in a Technopoly, technology itself becomes the organizing principle for all social, political, and personal life — its innovations are not merely tools but the foundation of meaning.
One hallmark of this shift is the elevation of information to near-sacred status. The modern world teems with data points, statistics, and facts on every imaginable subject. We measure our health in cholesterol levels, evaluate social progress with charts and numbers, even quantify personal worth by follower counts. Postman concedes that this abundance of information can be powerful: modern medicine, high-speed communication, and expansive databases have undeniably improved our quality of life. But he also warns that the sheer volume of data can overwhelm our older, more holistic ways of knowing. If something cannot be neatly encoded in a measurable format, it risks being dismissed as irrelevant. Feelings, morals, and spiritual insights, once crucial to making sense of life, can fade into the background, overshadowed by the relentless glow of numeric “proof.”
Driving this dynamic is what Postman calls the “priesthood of experts.” In Technopoly, authority does not typically belong to the most compassionate or most insightful among us; it belongs to those with specialized, technical knowledge. Bureaucracy grows in lockstep with a proliferation of experts — from statisticians and psychiatrists to pollsters and AI developers — who claim the power to solve any and all problems through technical means. At first, this might seem liberating: experts can indeed offer incredible tools for tackling disease, coordinating complex systems, or even refining our daily schedules. But the danger emerges when we treat their methods as morally neutral or universally valid. By relying exclusively on data-driven solutions, we reduce the depth of human experience — sins become “deviance,” and suffering becomes a mere “problem” to be corrected, losing the tragic sense of life that once underscored our empathy and communal solidarity.
Moreover, the acceptance of technology as the supreme cultural force erodes the skepticism essential for democratic discourse. In previous ages, leaps in communication — such as the printing press — fueled wide-ranging debate, as more people gained access to new ideas. By contrast, in a Technopoly, the quantity of available information can bury dissenting views under floods of trivialities or calculated propaganda. Postman notes that “information chaos” can leave citizens disoriented, more inclined to trust whoever wields the most impressive data set or uses the most sophisticated algorithm. In this environment, popular appeal is shaped less by reasoned argument than by marketing strategies or cleverly engineered feedback loops.
Technopoly, then, is not defined solely by the presence of advanced devices — telephones, computers, or sophisticated AI — but by our collective surrender to their logic as the ultimate arbiter of truth. This surrender is subtle: it gains force each time we uncritically accept that technology should solve every dilemma, from extending our lifespans to managing our emotional states. It deepens whenever we presume that improvement must mean greater efficiency, faster speeds, or more data, often ignoring the possibility that slower, more reflective, or more ethically grounded approaches might serve us better.
In Postman’s view, retaining our humanity requires refusing to let technology dictate the very terms on which we live. That means nurturing older sources of meaning — philosophy, art, religion, and civil debate — even as we capitalize on the legitimate wonders technology provides. It also means embracing a measured humility, acknowledging that each technological leap can yield unforeseen cultural consequences. Instead of asking only “Can this be done?” we must also ask “Should it be done?” and “What human values might we lose if it is done?” If Technopoly is a state of mind that reveres technology as a deity, Postman would have us recall that the best way to honor our inventions is to keep them in perspective, ensuring that they serve our deeply human aspirations rather than displacing them.
