Most people reject the idea of a cyborg future:
In the real world we value many things more than efficiency

Alexandra Samuel
May 22, 2002

Preparing for a job interview, Eric pulls out his PDA to look up a phone number, then reaches for his cell phone.

He runs a few questions past an inside contact, taking notes on the laptop that's balanced on one knee.

Juggling his gadgets, he feels a slow-growing panic: will he be able to keep all of this in his head during the interview? There's an obvious, if elusive, solution to Eric's dilemma: implanting a microchip in his brain. Medical researchers are hard at work on the challenge of integrating silicon circuits into our neural networks.

Innovations so far include an artificial retina, a chip to help paralyzed people regain motor abilities, brain "pacemakers" to regulate certain neurological disorders, and an implant linking the mind of a U.K. cybernetics professor with that of his wife.

Many people anticipate the day when these limited medical applications give way to the widespread deployment of implants that help us in our everyday lives.

Neural chips could allow us to control our computer mice with our minds, enhance our mental abilities, replace extraneous gadgets with on-board processing.

Now for the astonishing part: for many people, this vision of our cyborg future evokes more fear than excitement. Offered the possibility of becoming better, stronger, and faster -- not to mention disposing of the PDA, cell phone, and laptop -- most people say no. This aversion to a little self-improvement is mystifying in economic terms. Self-interested individuals ought to be clamouring for any technology that promises improved mental, physical, or communications capacity.

Much of our economy rests on the expectation that both individuals and businesses are in relentless pursuit of improved efficiency and optimized performance.

All things being equal, we assume that consumers will buy the detergent with the most stain-fighting power, the car with the most kilometers to the gallon, the computer that loads web pages fastest. We assume that businesses will make the decisions that increase productivity, profits, and shareholder value.

But in the real world, all things are rarely equal. We value many things more than efficiency.

We want the detergent that smells like the one our grandparents used, or the car that impresses our colleagues. Even businesses deviate from the expectation of rationality: a manager can't bring himself to fire a low-performing worker, or a company stays in a small-town location it has objectively outgrown.

The same kind of thinking governs the reaction to the idea of neural implants. Sure, they're efficient. Maybe they could make us smarter, more effective, more productive, even wealthier. But for most people these potential benefits are less compelling than the potential erosion of what makes us human.