A reader recently sent me a Substack post they thought I might like. “I bought my kids an old-school phone to keep smartphones out of their hands while still letting them chat with friends,” the post’s author, Priscilla Harvey, writes. “But it’s turned into the sweetest, most unexpected surprise: my son’s new daily conversations with his grandmothers.”
As Harvey continues, her son has adopted the habit of stretching out on the couch, talking to his grandmother on a retro rotary-style phone, the long cable stretching across the room. “There’s no scrolling, no distractions, no comparisons, no dopamine hits to chase,” she notes. “Instead he is just listening to stories, asking questions, and having the comfort of knowing someone who loves him is listening on the other end of the line.”
The post’s surface message is one about kids and technology. Harvey, defiantly pushed back against the culture of weary resignation surrounding our youth and phone use, and discovered something sacred.
But I think there’s a more general idea lurking here as well.
The telephone, in its original hard-plastic, curly-wired form, is an example of what we might call an additive technology. Its goal is to take something you value—like talking to people you know—and make this activity easier and more accessible. You want to talk to your grandmother? Dial her number, and her voice fills your ear, clear and immediate. The phone seeks strictly to add value to your life.
Now compare this to Instagram. The value proposition is suddenly muddled. You might enjoy aspects of this app: the occasional diversion, the rare update from a cherished friend. But with these joys come endless sorrows as well. The scrolling can become worryingly addictive, while the content tends to devolve into a digital slurry—equal parts mind-numbing and anxiety-inducing.
Unlike the straightforward benefits of a landline, it soon becomes clear that this tool doesn’t have your best interests as its primary goal. It’s using you; making itself just compelling enough that you’ll pick it up, at which point it can monetize every last ounce of your time and data. It’s what we might call an extractive technology, as it seeks to extract value from you instead of providing it.
My philosophy of techno-selectionism builds on a simple belief: we must become significantly more critical and choosy about the tools we allow into our lives. This goal becomes complicated when we filter our choices based solely on whether something can plausibly offer us any benefit. Nearly everything passes that low bar.
But if we distinguish between additive and extractive technologies, clarity emerges. The key is not whether that app, device, or site is flashy or potentially cool. What matters is whose interest it ultimately serves. If it’s not our own, why bother? Life’s too short to miss time on the phone with grandma.
